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ROBERT ATTERBURY 


THE “ UNKNOWN LIBRARY 



THE '^UNKNOWN" LIBRARY 


ROBERT ATTERBURY 

A STUDY OF LOVE AND LIFE 


BY 

THOMAS H. BRAINERD 

AUTHOR OF “go F^RTH AND FIND.” 







t APR 1 


NEW YORK 

THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. 

31 East 17TH St. (Union Square) 



1 

i 

( 


1 

1 


( 

Copyright, 1896, by 

THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. 


All rights reserved* 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


The heaviness of earth and air, 

The force of passing breeze. 

The weight of crowns and ships and worlds— 
I wonder not at these ; 

I see the awful griefs and pains 
That faint souls undergo. 

And wonder how the human heart 
Can stand such weight of woe ! 

The measurement of time and space," 

The depth of deepest seas. 

The distance of the faintest star — 

I marvel not at these ; 

The measure that I marvel at 
All measurements above 
Is this : the wondrous height and depth 
And length and breadth of Love ! 

— Clarence Urmy. 




CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

Love, 

I 

II. 

Retrospect, .... 

9 

III. 

Some of Robert’s Letters, . 

21 

IV. 

The Universe, .... 

31 

V. 

Some Views of Marriage, 

36 

VI. 

Coming Home, .... 

44 

VII. 

The Whitwells, .... 

48 

VIII. 

P, Van Roger Blethen, 

59 

IX. 

Claire, 

68 

X. 

Disaster, ...... 

76 

XI. 

Madame, La Belle-Mere, . 

84 

XII. 

Whitwell Van Roger Blethen 

lOI 

XIII. 

Endoring Hardness, 

112 

XIV. 

Depths, 

132 

XV. 

The Problem, .... 

148 

XVI. 

Dr. Richards Disappointed, . 

159 

XVII. 

Life, 

168 

XVIII. 

“I Say onto Thee, Arise,” 

176 

XIX. 

The Blethen Reception, 

190 

XX. 

Home Boilding, .... 

203 

XXI. 

XXII. 

The Fennel’s Bitter Leaf, 

"The Wind Bloweth where 

209 


IT Listeth,” 


230 


Vlll 

CHAPTER 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 


XXVI. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The Fruit of the Upas Tree, 240 
Scenes in Home Life, . . 249 

“No Dwelling More, by Sea 
OR Shore, 

But only in my Heart,” . . 264 

“I Beseech Thee Show Me 
THY Glory,” .... 276 



ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


CHAPTER I. 

LOVE. 

HE short summer night 
was almost over. Silence 
reigned supreme. Even 
the waves had for once 
almost ceased their sound ; 
their low, regular murmur was like 
the breathing of sleeping nature. 
True, Venus already hung like a 
jewel over the dark mountains in 
the east, but not even the earliest 
bird had fluttered a wing. The 
moon, her vigil almost finished, 
dropped slowly down through the 
western sky. She still shone on the 
windows of the cottage, and made 
fantastic etchings of the vine shadows 
on the porch. 



2 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Within the house there seemed to 
be profound repose ; no sign or sound 
of wakefulness appeared. One of the 
windows was open, and a wire screen 
softened the moonlight which fell 
through it across the bed, where a 
girl, half lying, half sitting, was wide 
awake and dreaming. She had 
crowded the thin pillow into a little 
bunch, and curved one arm over it 
to raise her head higher. Her 
tawny brown hair was uncoiled, and 
fell in wavy masses over her should- 
ers, making a lovely frame for the 
sweet girlish face and wide-open eyes. 

It was late when they had come 
in from a sail on the bay, and her 
aunt, Mrs. Towers, and her cousin 
Margaret had both been tired and 
sleepy ; so as soon as the men who 
were with them had said good-night 
and left the cottage, they had gone 
to bed. In a few minutes Sara knew 
by the sound of regular breathing 
that came to her from her cousin’s 
room, that Margaret was fast asleep. 
Then she sat up in bed and began 
slowly to review the events of the 
past three days. One after another 


LOVE. 


3 


the scenes passed before her ; and 
after each one, with a peculiar thrill 
which sent the blood to her heart, 
came the sound of his voice, saying 
very slowly “ Good-night,” and with 
it the firm pressure of his hand on 
hers, as he turned away. Once or 
twice she held her hand up and 
looked at it ; then laid it on her 
breast and her dream went on. 

Suddenly she heard in the dis- 
tance the faint strum-strum of a 
guitar. The player was evidently 
coming nearer. Now the footsteps 
sounded on the sidewalk — light foot- 
steps, keeping rhythmic time with 
the notes of the guitar. They did 
not pause at the gate, but came on 
up the walk toward the porch. 

Sara sat up, listening intently. 
Then softly, as if intended for only 
one to hear, a voice — his — began to 
sing: 

“ The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest, 

And climbing shakes his dewy wings ; 

He takes this window for the east, 

And to implore your light he sings. 

Awake, awake ; the morn will never rise 

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes ; 
Awake, awake, awake, awake ! ” 


4 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Sara’s lips were slightly parted, 
and in her eyes were gleams which 
came and went like soft, warm 
flashes of light. She put one foot 
out of bed and paused. 

“ Awake, awake ! ” 

Now she stood on the floor, wind- 
ing her hair about her head, while 
the roses of her cheeks grew brighter. 
Her simple toilet was soon made. 
Noiselessly she went to the window 
and looked out. A shade of dis- 
appointment crossed her face. She 
could see no one. Again the guitar 
repeated, “Awake, awake!” Put- 
ting on her hat and ulster, she passed 
silently through the hall and opened 
the outer door. 

He was sitting on the steps in 
front of the porch, playing softly on 
the guitar. His face lighted with 
great joy. 

“ How good you are ! Come, let 
us go,” was all that he said. 

She went down the steps, and side 
by side they walked through the 
garden and out into the quiet night. 

“We will go down to the lime 
wharf,” he said. “ I have been 


LOVE. 


5 


there ever since I left you, and when 
I knew that the morning was coming 
I hurried back for you.’' 

She did not answer, but walked 
on beside him. Presently he began 
to sing again : 

“ The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star, 
The plowman from the sun his season 
takes ; 

But still the lover wonders what they are 
Who look for day before his mistress 
wakes. ” 

Wakened by his song, a linnet 
started from its nest, and, seeing 
that day had not yet come, twitter- 
in gly remonstrated, then sank into 
silence again. 

They went on past the sleeping 
hotel, across the bridge, through 
lanes and byways, down the steep old 
wharf that slopes from the cliff and 
runs so far out into the bay that the 
land seems to be quite left behind. 

The water was solemn. It moved 
slowly in great swells toward the dis- 
tant beach. It still had the gleam 
of the moonlight upon it, but there 
seemed, in the breeze that ruffled its 


6 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


surface, to be promise of another 
light. 

Near the end of the wharf were 
two projecting piles close together. 
One of them, which was used as a 
mooring post for the little freight 
steamers, rose higher than the other. 
Robert stopped beside it. 

‘‘Sit here,” he said. “You will 
catch the first ray of morning here.” 

She sat down on the higher one, 
resting her feet on the top of the 
other great tree, her face toward the 
east. Then Robert threw himself 
down upon a coil of ropes a few feet 
away from her. He put his hands 
under his head, and looked up at the 
sky. They sat in silence for a few 
minutes ; then the moon set, and it 
was dark. Sara turned toward him. 
She could not see him, but she felt 
his watching eyes and smiled a little, 
then looked away again. 

Against the horizon Loma Prieta 
rested, dark and somber. Above it, 
thrilling with hope, the morning star 
mounted higher and higher. 

“ Courage,” it seemed to say to all 
the darkened earth. “ I see the sun. 


LOVE. 


7 


It is his light I send to you.” All 
promise, all delight, were in its beams. 

Along the black edge of the moun- 
tain a soft light suffused itself. 
Robert could see Sara’s eyes, full of 
wonder and awe. 

“ It is the dawn,” he said to him- 
self. 

The light grew apace ; the stars be- 
gan to fade and the shadows to flee 
away. 

Moment by moment her perfect 
profile came out more clearly against 
the dark water. Her sweet mouth 
trembled with great expectancy. 

Slowly the mists of the morning 
with their robes of fleecy gold came 
marching up the sky. The water 
shivered with the long waiting. 

Robert was not impatient. He so 
loved to mark the delicate eyebrows, 
the rings of hair which the wind 
moved softly on her forehead, and 
the tender curve of her chin. He 
wished the moments to move more 
slowly. 

The growing light seemed to con- 
centrate itself around her. She was 
so young, so bright, so full of hope 


8 


ROBERT ATTERBURY, 


and life ; she seemed to him to be 
the very type and essence of the 
morning. 

Suddenly with passionate rapture 
the long light swept across the water 
and wrapped her in its splendor. 

He bent toward her breathlessly. 
Her bosom heaved, her eyes filled 
full of unshed tears of joy. Then she 
turned and shed her light upon him, 
and he rose and clasped her in his 
arms and kissed her eyes and lips. 

“ My day, my life, my love,’* he 
whispered. 




CHAPTER II. 

RETROSPECT. 

ARA GARDNER had re- 
turned to California a few 
weeks before the night just 
passed. She was the only 
daughter of Mrs. Towers’ 
brother, and since her earliest child- 
hood she had known no home except 
at her aunt’s house. Her father was 
indeed living, but he was a wanderer 
over the face of the earth, and she 
did not remember ever to have seen 
him. It could not be said that he 
had neglected her, for he had be- 
stowed the greatest care and thought 
on all that concerned her life and 
health, her mental and moral train- 
ing. She had lived at schools which 
had been selected with an evident 
purpose ; her vacations had all been 
planned to further the same design, 



5 


lO 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


and in the letters which came with 
melancholy regularity from her father 
he kept constantly before her mind 
the end to be striven for — health and 
strength, physical and mental. 

^‘If you wish to be happy, be 
well ; if you wish to be useful, be 
strong." 

To the accomplishment of these 
ends he had always lent himself in 
every way, except by his own pres- 
ence ; and all that the science of the 
day and the wisdom of the teachers 
had gathered together were freely 
placed at her disposal. 

About three years before the time 
of which we write Mr. Gardner had 
written to Mrs. Towers vaguely that 
he might come home, that he longed 
for a sight of his own country. In 
the same letter he asked for a photo- 
graph of Sara — “one that looks as 
she really does." Mrs. Towers had 
sent it without saying anything to 
Sara, because she knew what the 
effect would be ; and she was not 
surprised that no more was said of 
coming home. 

Sara was a lovely reproduction of 


RETROSPECT. 


II 


her mother at her age. She had the 
same tawny brown hair, the same full 
tender mouth, and the same grayish 
green eyes, full of indescribable 
depths of emotion, and sometimes 
burning with fires of enthusiasm. 
Her school days proper were now 
ended ; she had just graduated at 
Vassar, and she was twenty-one 
years old. During the last year of 
her college course she had written to 
her father to ask if she might join 
him in Japan after her graduation. 
He had replied coldly that his plans 
were uncertain, and had urged her 
to take a post-graduate course, to 
choose a profession for herself. 

“ I wish to see you independent of 
everyone,” he wrote. “ More and 
more, I see, the tendency among 
educated women is to remain un- 
married. This is well. I know 
better than you can how improbable 
it is that a broad-minded, intelligent 
woman, who knows the laws of God 
as revealed to us in the laws of 
nature, will meet any man who will 
answer to the demands which she 
must and will make. It is necessary. 


12 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


however, that every human being 
should have some absorbing interest, 
something upon which he can spend 
whatever he is, and through which 
he can grow to his final possibilities. 
If you have learned what I hope you 
have, you will agree with me ; and I 
hope, before the close of the year, 
you will have decided upon some 
well-defined plan of life. You can 
rely upon me to assist you to the ex- 
tent of my ability.” 

Sara was disappointed and a little 
hurt, but she was so strong and well, 
so perfectly light-hearted and young, 
that nothing could depress her long. 
She wrote a cheery letter to her 
father, and began to consider what 
she would like best to do if she was 
to be doing it all her life. 

She had been chiefly interested in 
the natural science studies of her 
college course, and, as far as the 
course was elective, had given most 
of her time to them. She had been 
greatly absorbed in biology. When 
commencement was over, she wrote 
to her father that she would spend 
the summer with her aunt and cousin 


RETROSPECT. 


13 


in California, then go to Philadelphia 
and begin to study medicine. 

Mrs. Towers and Margaret were at 
their cottage in Santa Cruz, and Sara 
joined them there. They were all 
very fond of the quaint town, with 
its terrace upon terrace rising from 
the sea to the mountains behind it. 
The foam-scalloped bathing beach 
had been the scene of many hours of 
childish glee for both Sara and her 
cousin. Sara probably had more of 
the feeling which we call “ home- 
like," when she sat on the warm 
sand, her back against a log, her book 
lying in her lap, dreamily watching 
the waves break at her feet, than in 
any other place in the world. No- 
where else did she feel the responsive 
love that Nature has for her children 
as when, resting on the buoyant 
water, her strong young arms sweep- 
ing in steady strokes, she swam away 
out beyond the raft, beyond the noisy 
group of paddlers in the foam, and 
was alone with the sea and the sky. 

Her cousin Margaret was a gentle, 
sweet girl, gay and light hearted, 
with an enthusiastic admiration for 


u 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


her brilliant cousin. She had, how- 
ever, been brought up in an entirely 
different way from that which Sara’s 
father had chosen for his daughter. 
She had been at home from school 
and “ out ” for two years, had enjoyed 
and endured all that society could 
give and inflict, and was now engaged 
to Joseph Hunter, a young lawyer in 
San Francisco. He was a Harvard 
man, of good talents, and very pleas- 
ant ways. His ambition was to make 
a success in his profession, if possible 
be elected to one of the superior 
judgeships, and have an elegant home 
where he could gather his friends 
about him, and shine in society, as he 
knew himself fitted to do. 

Joseph came to Santa Cruz for a 
few days every now and then. When 
Margaret expected him, she and Sara 
usually walked to the train to meet 
him. Three days before our story 
opens he had come down, and when 
he had given the girls the first greet- 
ing he turned to a young man who 
stood waiting near him. 

“ Margaret,” he said, “ this is my 
old friend, Robert Atterbury, who 


RETROSPECT. 


15 


happens to be in this part of the 
world for a week or two. I saw him 
in the city just before I left, and 
persuaded him to come down with 
me. I have promised him everything 
— swimming, boating, riding, and, 
most of all, good company. I hope 
we shall have good weather. I am 
almost afraid he has too great ex- 
pectations, and may be disappointed." 

Margaret welcomed Robert with 
kind cordiality, then presented him 
to Sara. While he spoke to Mar- 
garet, Sara noticed that there was a 
mourning band on his hat, and that 
his mouth had a tired, sad expression. 
When he turned to speak to her, his 
eyes met hers, and she saw that they 
were strong and steadfast. He took 
her hand in his, and held it firmly for 
a moment. A light seemed to come 
into his face as he looked at her. 

“ I am sure there is no possibility 
that I shall be disappointed," he said 
in answer to Joe’s remark. 

They dined at the hotel, and then 
walked over to Mrs. Towers’ cottage. 
Robert excused himself, saying that 
he had letters to write. 


i6 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


“ Your friend is charming, Joseph, 
but I do not remember to have heard 
of him. Who is he, and where does 
he come from ? ” 

“ He is one of my old college 
friends, Mrs. Towers. His home is 
in or near Boston, and he comes just 
now from Southern California. He 
was in the class below me at Harvard, 
so that I did not know him at all 
intimately then ; but while I was in 
the law school he was at the Episco- 
pal Divinity College, and we met 
very often at a mutual friend’s. I 
liked him immensely, although as a 
rule one does not take to the divinity 
students. He had to leave on ac- 
count of his brother’s illness. His 
brother, Dave, was a splendid fellow : 
he was in the ’varsity crew, and no 
slouch at work, either. He broke 
up all of a sudden, had a hemor- 
rhage of the lungs, and had to be 
carried home. Bob went with him, 
of course, and when he got a little 
better the doctor ordered him off to 
a milder climate. His father had 
died the year before, and his mother 
was not able to travel, so Bob calmly 


RETROSPECT. 


17 


put his own life aside and went with 
Dave. He took him everywhere, but 
it was all for nothing. Poor Dave 
died at the Sierra Madre Villa about 
two months ago, and now Bob is on 
his way home. His mother is with 
him, and as she is with friends in 
San Francisco he was very much 
pleased to come down here with me. 
I have not talked with him much, 
and do not know if he still means to 
be a clergyman or not ; but he is a 
first-rate fellow with lots of talent, 
and I should say might make a place 
for himself in the world.” 

Sara, who, as usual, was reading, 
laid her book in her lap to listen. 
Why did she feel this unusual inter- 
est in a perfect stranger? She did 
not know, and when Joseph had 
finished, she took her book again and 
read on. She turned the page, but 
though she continued to read the 
words, she was thinking of Robert 
and repeating Joe’s words : “ put his 
own life aside” ; she smiled tenderly, 
understanding fully that to go with 
the poor sick boy, to comfort him by 
the clasp of his firm, strong hand, to 


i8 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


give him courage by the steadfast 
light in his own eyes, to go with him 
down through the dark valley, had 
been, to Robert, living his life, not 
putting it aside. All the evening she 
realized him as something new and 
wonderful which had come into her 
world, and in the morning, when they 
met on the beach, it was not as 
strangers, but as well-known friends. 

Who can explain why the flower 
opens to the sun ? or why, when 
Heaven has decreed that a man and 
woman shall be one, there should 
come to them such marvelous under- 
standing and knowledge of each 
other ? 

It was so with Robert and Sara. 
The three days of his visit more than 
sufficed. His whole life, his ambi- 
tions and hopes, her strange, lonely 
childhood with its unspoken longings, 
were all plain and simple and com- 
prehended each by each. 

The last night of their stay in 
Santa Cruz the moonlight was en- 
trancing, and Margaret asked Joseph 
to take them out for a sail on the 
bay. She took her guitar, and they 


RETROSPECT. 


19 


sang songs, gay and sentimental, to 
which she played accompaniments. 

“ Madge, dear, please give the 
guitar to Robert,” Joe presently said. 
Then, turning to Robert, he contin- 
ued : “ And, Robert, sing some of 
the old songs, will you?” 

Robert took the guitar and sang 
the songs which had been their favor- 
ites three years before in the dear old 
college days. Sara, leaning back in 
the boat and looking out over the 
rippling light on the water, felt that 
she had never heard any singing be- 
fore ; and again it seemed to her that 
she had known this voice, that it had 
been singing in her heart always. 

They all walked together from the 
landing up to the cottage, Robert 
carrying the guitar ; and when he 
bade Margaret good-by he asked her 
if he might keep it for a little while. 

“ I am not going to bed just yet,” 
he said. “ I will leave it with the 
clerk at the hotel, to be sent to you 
to-morrow.” 

Margaret was very glad to have 
him keep it. Joe and he were going 
on the early train the next morning, 


20 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


SO they said good-night and good-by 
at once. Mrs. Towers went into the 
house, but Margaret and Joe lingered 
for a few last words. Robert had 
spoken no word of love to Sara. 
Neither of them had in any way de- 
fined their relation, even in thought, 
but each one knew that life had been 
made complete and perfect in the 
other. He was near her, playing 
softly on the guitar and looking up 
to the light. She stood back in the 
shadow of the vine which covered 
the porch, and read his face in the 
moonlight. It was grave and serious, 
perhaps beyond his years, but its 
chief expression was that of manly 
gentleness, the gentleness which is 
the outcome of great strength of 
character. Her heart swelled with 
joy and happiness while she looked 
at him. 

Joe came slowly down the steps, 
still holding Margaret's hand and 
telling her good-by. Robert turned 
and smiled into Sara’s eyes, and said 

Good-night ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

SOME OF ROBERT’S LETTERS. 


Y beloved is mine and I 
am hers." I sang the 
Song of Songs over and 
over in my heart this 
morning on the train. 
My beloved ! 

I seem to have told you so much 
and to have so much to tell. We will 
have all our lives to tell it in, so need 
not hurry. All our lives, did I say ? 
What I mean is, all, that is, eternity; 
because we are one ; nothing could 
now come to divide us, and make 
two lives of our united life. 

Dearest, when I first saw you there 
at the depot I knew. Not perfectly, 
because no one could bear such joy, if 
it came fully at once ; but faintly, yet 
certainly, I knew. It was as if some- 
one had whispered to me, “This is 



22 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


your Other self ; it is for her you 
have been waiting ; for her you have 
been longing ; because of her you 
live.” 

It is only three days since that far- 
away forgotten time when I had not 
seen you. I am happy, rapturously 
happy, but not satisfied. Why is it, 
dear love, that our soul is never satis- 
fied? I think it is because of that 
eternity of which I was just writing, 
through the endless ages of which 
we are to grow. Think of it ! On 
and up through sorrows, perhaps, 
and joys, through living and dying, 
but always together : that is the 
Alpha and Omega, the all in all, 
together. 

I have been trying to picture our 
life, dearest. What a revelation of 
light in the dark places, of comfort 
and rest in the tired places, your 
sweet presence will be as we go on 
our mission of love to men and 
women ! 

This morning when the train drew 
up at Los Gatos I looked out. On 
the platform there stood a woman 
with two children clinging to her 


SOME OF Robert’s letters. 23 


dress. She looked anxiously at the 
train, evidently expecting someone 
who had not come. In her eyes was 
a tired, hungry look, and her lips were 
thin and compressed, as if to keep 
back the cry of her heart. 

In this new world, where I now live 
with you, love, I understand many 
things, and I knew that it was love 
which she hungered for, and broken 
faith that caused the pain in her 
heart. Her eyes met mine, and mine 
said to her, “ Courage, dear sister.” 
Her face flushed a little, but she 
stooped and took the smaller child 
in her arms and smiled at it and 
kissed it, and I saw that her pain was 
lessened. It was help from you 
which I had given her. 

Then we went on, and I fell into 
an old bad habit which belonged to 
that other life when I was alone. I 
began to fancy your face — yours, be- 
loved, with that look upon it. It was 
terrible ; it tortured me, and I must 
have groaned aloud. Joe, who sat 
opposite, asked if I was ill. I an- 
swered “ No,” but I opened the win- 
dow and put my head out to breathe 


24 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


the fresh air, and your spirit came to 
me in the breeze, and the horrible 
vision passed away. My own ! My 
love ! It may be, I know that it must 
be, that there will be sorrows for us 
to bear — but God do so to me and 
more, if ever act of mine shall mar 
your perfect loveliness. 

It is most wonderful to realize how 
all things are changed to me, and 
those which I have considered small 
and unimportant are becoming of ab- 
sorbing interest. Last night I went 
for a few minutes to the opera. It 
was not a very good troupe. They 
were singing “ Faust ” — that universal 
story, told in immortal music. The 
scene was at the church door, and 
while I listened to Marguerite's 
baffled prayer, I longed to grapple 
this monster. Prejudice, which under 
the holiest names, the names of 
Purity and Religion, has with fiendish 
cruelty pushed down and back the 
struggling sinners. My soul wailed 
with her anguish, and sank down ex- 
hausted with her despair. As the 
curtain fell, a harsh, metallic laugh 


SOME OF ROBERT’S LETTERS. 25 


struck upon my ear. I turned to see 
a woman, painted, bejeweled, horri- 
ble. She smiled at me with her 
sickening, polluted mouth. I shud- 
dered ; then your tender eyes shone 
before me and it was as if you had 
said, She is my sister ; I am de- 
graded by her shame ; I am lost in 
her waywardness.” I longed to 
kneel at her feet, and with tears and 
prayers beseech her to come back to 
life and love from the charnel house 
where she now lives. Can we not 
help them, you and I, dearest love ? 
Will we not try with all our heart and 
strength ? 

If we could only solve this problem, 
could understand why this demon of 
evil passion has taken possession of 
our Holy of Holies, why our whole 
race is under its all-crushing slavery! 
I was thinking of this when there 
came into my mind these words : 
** His delight is in the law of the Lord, 
and in His law doth he meditate day 
and night.” 

Is the answer to be found here ? 
Let us search for it, my own. 


26 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


When I first awakened this morn- 
ing, I lay still, with closed eyes, 
slowly thinking over all your perfect- 
ness, my love. I tried to think if 
there were any little possible change 
which I would be even willing to 
have in you. There was none — none 
at all, beloved ; but suddenly there 
came to me a feeling that I was away 
from you ; a necessity to see you. 
There was a rap at my door, and a 
letter was slipped under it. How 
good you are, how kind, and how 
adorable ! My soul rests in perfect 
blessedness in your love. 

I looked for a long time at the en- 
velope before I opened the letter. 
What joy to have a letter from you 
to me ! And your handwriting ! 
What a new revelation of you it was; 
and I, foolish, thought I knew you so 
well. Yet, I reasoned, she could not 
have had any other handwriting. It 
belongs to her. “So candid and 
simple, and nothing withholding, and 
free.” It is well ! I stopped to 
pray a little prayer of thankfulness. 

Thank you, darling, for having put 
the little photograph in. It is sweet 


SOME OF ROBERT’S LETTERS. 27 


and dear and good, as photographs 
go, and I am glad to have it. 

I have been trying to see how 
many pictures of you I have. I 
close my eyes to look at them. 
There are many, and each one rep- 
resents to me something typical of 
perfection in womanhood. When I 
see you with the little blue handker- 
chief tied around your head, and only 
here and there a willful curl upon your 
forehead, your eyes smiling at me 
from the bright waves, through which 
you swim with such strong strokes, 
I call you Joy. Then comes a vision 
of your sweet, girlish form, leaning 
back in the shadow of a sail. The 
boat glides gently over a moonlit sea. 
Your great eyes, solemn and serene, 
are looking up into the depths of the 
night sky. I love this picture ; it 
rests my heart, and I call it Peace. 
But most of all, beloved, my love, I 
see you as I saw you that morning, 
the morning of our birth into this 
promised land, when the air grew 
bright as it touched you, when the 
wind and the sea sang for joy in you, 
and the sun wreathed his glory in a 


28 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


halo around your head. When I see 
this — and still more, when you turn 
your glorified eyes on me — I lose all 
consciousness of self, and call you 
Blessing. 

Yes, love. You are right as always. 
Forgive me if I seemed to forget that 
there is another who has claims on 
you. I will write to your father 
to-night. To-morrow my mother — 
how she will love you ! — goes home. 
I will go with her, and when we are 
at home I will tell her all that I have 
found, and then I will come back to 
you. It will not be long, not more 
than three weeks at farthest. We 
will wait for the answer from your 
father, and then, beloved, do not let 
any outside consideration come 
between us. Be my wife at once. 
Wife ! How unutterably sweet the 
little word is ! 

Dearest, I have had an evening of 
great experience — and of pain. Now 
it is gone, and I realize how wise and 
best it is that joy should be tempered 
with sorrow, else we should grow to 


SOME OF Robert’s letters. 29 


be giants in egotism, taking all good 
as our own deserving. It was in this 
wise : in accordance with my promise 
I began a letter to your father. It 
had seemed to me a simple thing to 
write, and — yes, I will confess my 
sin to you — I had so entirely recog- 
nized that you are mine, as I also am 
yours, that the letter seemed to be 
merely a courtesy, a form. 

I wrote the address, and held the 
pen suspended for a moment over 
the paper, when, Presto ! Change ! 
There arose before my mind the 
image of a strong, earnest man, such 
as your father must be, whose pierc- 
ing eyes seemed to look into my very 
soul and plainly to ask, “ On what 
ground do you, a perfect stranger, 
come to ask from me the gift of my 
precious, glorious daughter ? ” 

I laid the pen down, abashed, and 
with those eyes fixed upon me 
reviewed my life. I put myself in 
his place and saw the day, which the 
future may bring, when another, such 
as I, should come to me and ask for 
my daughter to be his wife. My 
daughter ! Ours ! Oh, my beloved. 


30 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


I wonder if in your sweet springtime 
of life you will understand how this 
new, enrapturing thought swept over 
me, and with what passionate pain I 
saw that they^ these children of ours, 
are the reason for all your loveliness, 
for all your dazzling perfections ; 
that motherhood is the fulfillment of 
your life as you are the fulfillment of 
mine, and that God has gathered all 
beauty together in you in order that 
the glad earth may be happy and re- 
joice in your children. 

For a while I was troubled and 
sorrowful, but, as always, your spirit 
came to me and comforted. I 
realized your need of me, your rest 
and dependence on me, and grew 
glad again. Now I rejoice to know 
myself strong and well for your sake 
and for theirs ; and love has grown 
and taken yet another office, because 
whereas before it filled the length 
and breadth and height of our own 
lives, it now sits in faithful guard 
over the holy mystery of those lives 
that are to be. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE UNIVERSE. 

ARA, do you know that 
we have been sitting here 
for just one hour, and that 
you have not spoken nor 
moved once ? I hope, since 
your thoughts are so absorbing, that 
they are pleasant ones.” 

Mrs. Towers looked a little anx- 
iously at her niece, and Sara smiled 
at her reassuringly. 

“ Thank you, auntie, my thoughts 
are more than pleasant ; they are 
happy. I am sorry to have been so 
inattentive, however.” 

She made an effort to bring herself 
back to the scene around her. All 
about on the white sand were groups 
of gayly dressed women, the older 
ones gossiping or reading, according 
to their natures, the younger ones 



32 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


gathering about the few good swim- 
mers, anxiously arranging to go into 
the surf with them. The prevailing 
idea seemed to be that there was 
safety in numbers, and that in some 
occult way the great green waves 
would respect a crowd. Here and 
there was a man, usually very old or 
very young ; but nowhere was the 
sex in sufficient numbers to affect the 
appearance of the assemblage. 

Everywhere, beside every log, along 
the edge of the water, under the feet 
of the horses, were the serious workers 
of this otherwise idle crowd. Little 
children, boys and girls, with shovels 
in hand, buckets beside them, and 
patient determination in their faces, 
were digging wells, building forts, 
making mountains, caves, and tun- 
nels. They worked with unfailing, 
absorbed interest, and were in strong 
contrast to the pink-legged little imps 
who were running in and out of the 
curving, dancing sea-foam, and whose 
piercing shrieks of joy rose above the 
sound of the waves and the hum of 
other noises. It was a scene full of 
life, of human stories, living them- 


THE UNIVERSE. 


33 


selves out under the sweet summer 
sun. 

A new realization of it all came to 
Sara as she looked around. She 
seemed never before to have really 
looked at people. “ I had eyes, but 
saw not," she said to herself. 

- Just then Margaret came and flung 
herself down upon the sand beside 
them. She held an open letter in her 
hand. “Joe writes that Mr. Atter- 
bury has gone East with his mother. 
He says he is very sorry, because he 
wanted him to come down here again 
next week. I do not think that is 
very complimentary to us, do you, 
mother ? " 

“Well, I do not know. I would 
not look at it in that way," Mrs. 
Towers said. “It is very natural 
that Joseph should enjoy having his 
old friends down here. I would not 
be jealous of other men, if I were in 
your place. What did you think of 
Mr. Atterbury, Sara?" she asked. 

“Oh, mother, Sara did not think 
of him at all," Margaret interrupted. 
“ Don’t you know that she is too 
much absorbed in all the theories 


34 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


about mankind in general, to give 
any time to thinking about any man 
in particular ? ” 

She made a little pouting moue at 
her cousin. 

The color came and went in Sara’s 
face for a minute, and she looked 
from her cousin to her aunt. They 
were startled by the wave of won- 
derful beauty which swept over her. 
Her eyes were glorified. 

“ Margaret is wrong for once, 
auntie dear,” she said softly. I 
think of him all the time ; he fills the 
universe to me. I should have gone 
with him now, only we are waiting to 
hear from father. I am going to be 
his wife.” 

Margaret sprang up in great excite- 
ment and began to ask a thousand 
questions ; so Sara did not see that 
her aunt grew suddenly white, and 
that a look of terror came into her 
eyes. 

“ Have you written to your father, 
Sara?” Mrs. Towers asked, after a 
few minutes. 

“Yes, we have both written. We 
ought to have an answer in about 


THE UNIVERSE. 


35 


six weeks. Robert will come back 
before then, and we will be married 
as soon as the letter comes.” 

Her aunt turned her head away, 
and Margaret took possession of her 
again. In a few minutes Mrs. Towers 
rose, and, saying that she was tired, 
went up to the cottage. When the 
girls came in later they learned that 
she had a headache and had gone to 
bed. They did not see her again 
that night. 




CHAPTER V. 

SOME VIEWS OF MARRIAGE. 

HE train was late in com- 
ing in to Humboldt. There 
was a hot box on one of 
the fast freight cars, which, 
being loaded with fresh 
fruit, had to be taken on. The con- 
ductor had telegraphed back to San 
Francisco several times, saying that 
he was losing time which it would be 
impossible to make up ; but the an- 
swer was always the same : Take 

the car on.” 

At Humboldt many of the passen- 
gers crowded around and looked on 
at the efforts which the trainmen 
were making to cool the hot iron. 
Most of them looked discontented, 
and a few of them were decidedly 
cross and angry. They would have 
liked to find someone whom they 



SOME VIEWS OF MARRIAGE. 37 


could hold responsible for the deten- 
tion, and have it out with him. 

Robert stood on the rear platform 
of the train. Stretching off into the 
infinite distance were two parallel 
lines of steel which marked their path 
over the high plain. The air was 
cool and delicious ; it had in it some 
of the elation of height and space. 
Robert was in absolute accord with 
Nature, and every chord which she 
struck, whether of sound or color, 
found answering harmony in him. 
Nowit was the pale gray-green of the 
sagebrush fading away into the in- 
definite light of the horizon ; again 
the bare brown rocks outlined against 
the deep blue of the higher heavens ; 
or the saucy chattering of a pair of 
squirrels, who seemed to be medita- 
ting war against the train with its 
intruding passengers, and then the 
sudden whistle of a mountain quail 
calling to his mate. He listened and 
looked a while, then went down and 
walked briskly up and down the plat- 
form, very glad of the chance to ex- 
ercise in the fresh air after the night 
spent in the close car. He was ten- 


38 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


derly conscious all the time of Sara, 
of her environment, of what she was 
probably doing ; but his thoughts 
rushed forward to the life which was 
to be. He smiled to think of the 
plans which he had made only a few 
short weeks before. Everything in 
life had grown in importance and pos- 
sibility to him, and it seemed to him 
that this dual life of theirs made one, 
was not one life added to the other, 
but one multiplied into the other, 
and then into infinite love, so that 
through this union they might hope 
all things, endure all things, and ac- 
complish all things. 

As he passed for the fourth or fifth 
time the group surrounding the hot 
box, a man turned away from it and 
came toward him. He was rather 
small and very thin. He held an 
open watch in his hand. 

‘‘ Dear me, dear me ! ” he said, in 
a nervous, worried tone,“an hour and 
thirty-three minutes late already ! ” 

He walked rapidly toward the en- 
gine, as if possibly the engineer might 
be able to do something about the 
matter. Something familiar about 


SOME VIEWS OF MARRIAGE. 39 


the man attracted Robert’s attention. 
He stopped to consider for a moment, 
then went quickly forward, holding 
out his hand and smiling. 

“ This is George Chester, if I am 
not mistaken.” 

“Yes, I am George Chester, and you 
— you are Robert Atterbury ? Well, 
well ! I am very glad to see you. I 
did not know that you were on the 
train. Where have you come from, 
and how are you ? ” 

Chester shook Robert warmly by 
the hand and instantly all appearance 
of vexation left him. He was de- 
lighted to meet a friend, and, now 
having something that he could be 
doing, resigned the train to the offi- 
cials in charge. They walked side 
by side, asking and answering ques- 
tions. 

“ No. I am not going East ; only 
as far as Salt Lake City. I have busi- 
ness there and am in a hurry to get 
back to Sacramento. You know I 
live in Sacramento ; have lived there 
for six years. Yes, I have a good 
practice as times go, but it means in- 
cessant work. A man with a family. 


40 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


you know. You remember Mary, do 
you not ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” Robert answered, “ I 
remember her very well. I was just 
thinking of the, last time I saw you 
both. It was on your wedding-day, 
and I have never forgotten how en- 
tirely happy and contented you both 
seemed. It was a good commence- 
ment of life.” 

“ Ah, yes ! I remember ! ” and 
George sighed rather wearily. “ Well, 
well ! That was a long time ago. 
Let me see. You were in the Di- 
vinity School the last time I heard 
about you. Oh,” — suddenly glancing 
at the mourning band on Robert's 
hat, — “ yes, yes ! I remember it all 
now. Poor Dave ! poor boy ! Mary 
had a letter from her sister telling 
her about it. It was very sad, very 
sad indeed. Well, well ! Dear, 
dear ! ” 

The conductor shouted “All 
aboard ! ” and the two men went into 
the smoking-room of Robert’s car. 
They sat in silence for a few minutes, 
both absorbed in thought. 

“ Are you going back to Cam- 


SOME VIEWS OF MARRIAGE. 41 


bridge ? ” George asked. Have you 
made any plans yet ? ” 

Robert smiled as be answered. 

Yes,” he said ; “ I have some 
plans, not perfectly decided upon, 
because I must first see what arrange- 
ment I can make. I think I shall go 
back to the school, but I want to be 
doing other work at the same time. 
I would like to do missionary work 
in the city, if I can manage it.” 

Robert looked so bright and hope- 
ful that George sighed again ; then 
he put his hand on Robert’s knee. 

“ My dear fellow,” said he, “ you 
look as if you intended to do some- 
thing with your life. Let me give 
you a piece of advice : If you wish 
to accomplish anything at all in this 
world, don’t marry. Dont marry^ I 
say. You might as well hang your- 
self and done with it, as to tie your- 
self down with a family. Why, look 
at me ! Here we have been married 
for six years, and for four I have not 
had a day’s holiday nor an hour’s 
rest or relief. We have three chil- 
dren, and God only knows how many 
more we will have. Mary is only 


42 


ROBERT ATTERBURY, 


twenty-six years old, and you would 
think she was forty. You would not 
know her. No ! And I am sur- 
prised that you knew me. I live 
with my nose at the grindstone, and 
I expect to die with it there. I tell 
you, a man cannot make a greater 
mistake than to marry; that is, unless 
he is so rich that he does not have to 
think of money, or so poor that the 
town takes care of him. You re- 
member what I tell you.” 

Robert said that he would, and 
shortly went back to his mother in 
the other part of the car. His own 
happy anticipations were not dimmed 
by the, pessimistic views of his friend ; 
still he was troubled. 

Chester was four or five years 
Robert’s senior, and Robert had 
never known him intimately, but he 
knew that he had made a fine record 
in college, and now as he sat think- 
ing of him, he distinctly recalled a 
little scene which he had himself wit- 
nessed. It was on commencement 
day. George was valedictorian of 
his class, and he had received almost 
an ovation from his classmates and 


SOME VIEWS OF MARRIAGE. 43 


the audience. There had been some- 
thing so magnetic in the union of 
scholarly attainment and equipoise 
with youthful enthusiasm and hope, 
that as he stood before his audience 
the hearts of all had gone out to bid 
him Godspeed. After the exercises 
were over, his father and mother, 
walking slowly through the yard, met 
the president of the university. He 
stopped to congratulate them on their 
son’s success. 

“ The world will hear from him,” 
he said. “ He will have a place 
among the coming men.” 

Robert, who was just entering the 
freshman year, heard the president’s 
words, and he thought that fame and 
glory could give no more than that. 

The contrast between the youth- 
ful enthusiast and the despondent, 
careworn man was very painful. 

“ Something is radically wrong,” 
Robert said to himself. “ I wonder 
what it is ? ” 



CHAPTER VI. 

COMING HOME. 

HEN Robert and his 
mother reached the Mis- 
sissippi they found a warm 
wave passing over the 
country. The air was 
stifling, and the cars almost unen- 
durable. Mrs. Atterbury was pros- 
trated by the heat, and although 
Robert devoted himself incessantly 
to efforts for her comfort, he could 
do little for her. They ran behind 
time, and missed their train at 
Chicago, and had to choose between 
taking a slower one from there to 
Boston or waiting over for a day. 
Mrs. Atterbury preferred to go on. 
Her only hope seemed to be to reach 
the salt air, the inland heat was so 
oppressive. 

These physical discomforts added 



COMING HOME. 


45 


to the dreariness of their home-com- 
ing, which at best must have been 
sad. Home is dear, although those 
who have made it so are no longer 
there ; but it is a dear desolation, 
full of sweet memories that pain, of 
sad memories that torture. Mrs. 
Atterbury and Robert felt all this 
when they entered their house with- 
out the one who would never again 
brighten it with his presence. There 
was no one to welcome them except 
old Martha, the servant who had 
taken care of the house in their 
absence. She was watching for 
them, and threw the door open with 
a semblance of gladness, but as it 
closed upon them their loss came 
over them again as fresh and strong 
as on the day when Dave had died. 

Robert threw open the windows 
and pushed out from the corner his 
mother's favorite chair. He helped 
her to take off her traveling wraps, 
and threw his own things about on 
the chairs and tables, trying to give 
an air of life and occupancy to the 
room ; but he was himself tired, very 
tired and very sad, and the assumed 


46 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


cheerfulness was a poor disguise for 
his real feelings. Presently he saw 
the tears in his mother’s eyes. He 
knelt beside her and took her in his 
arms, while she let her grief have way. 

They had been in the house but a 
little while when Martha brought 
Robert a note. 

“ Mr. Blethen has been here three 
or four times to-day. He says he 
must see you at once, and the last 
time he came he wrote this note.” 

Robert opened it and read : 

Claire is gone. I do not know where. If 
you get home before twelve o’clock to-night, 
for God’s sake come to me at my old apart- 
ment. I must find her before this gets out. 

Yours, 

P. Van Ruger Blethen. 

Robert shut his hand on the note 
and frowned. 

“ What is it, Robert ? ” Mrs. 
Atterbury asked. 

“A note from Van Ruger, mother. 
He seems to want to see me about 
something of great importance. I 
think I will go to see him as soon as 
we have had supper.” 


COMING HOME. 


47 


When tea had been served, Robert 
bade his mother good-night. 

“ Try to rest, dear,” he said. “ I 
may very likely be late, and I am 
sure bed is the best place for you 
this sultry night.” 




CHAPTER VII. 

THE WHITWELLS. 

RS. ATTERBURY was 
J Claire Blethen’s aunt. 
\ Claire's father, Mr. Whit- 
' well, Mrs. Atterbury’s only 
brother, had lived most of 
his life in Europe. When nearly 
fifty years old he had married in 
Nice a pretty French girl. Mile. Rose 
Bauvais. Shortly afterward he sud- 
denly returned to Boston, and estab- 
lished himself in the old home of 
his childhood, on the outskirts of 
Concord. The house was old-fash- 
ioned, having been built by his grand- 
father. its rooms were grave and 
solemn, with furniture of dark oak 
and mahogany. In the garden were 
stately poplar trees whose shadows 
lay in long, prim lines on the smooth 
green lawns. Mr. Whitvvell had fled 



THE WHITWELLS. 


49 


from it in the first freedom of his 
early manhood, but now it seemed to 
him to be the most desirable place in 
the world ; a place of rest after vain 
wanderings ; a haven of peace and 
repose, where he was glad to feel that 
he could pass the remainder of his 
days. Had he not tasted every pleas- 
ure that every city of Europe could 
offer ; and had he not proved to his 
own satisfaction that they were all, or 
nearly all, vanity and vexation ? 

In the garden there was a wide- 
spreading chestnut tree, and under 
its shade a garden seat. From this 
spot the ground sloped gently away, 
exposing a lovely view. Faintly out- 
lined against the sky rose the mass of 
the city ; above it by day hung a 
cloud of smoke, and at night its 
thousand lights were merged into one 
glow. Often in the early evenings 
Mr. Whitwell brought his young wife 
here, and drawing her down to sit 
beside him, endeavored to amuse her 
while he refreshed himself with rem- 
iniscences of his past. He culled for 
her bits of experiences from his life 
in the gay world, and sometimes the 


50 


ROBERT ATTERBURV. 


tone of his voice and the expression 
in his face told her more than he 
knew, or would have wished to tell, 
of the delights and pleasures which 
he had known in that time which 
seemed to her so very long ago ; 
when she was a little girl, was per- 
haps not yet born. When he was 
minded to return to the present he 
would pat her hand and say : “ Well, 
well ! My little white rose could not 
live in those places. We are much 
better here in our quiet country 
home.” 

Rose, however, did not think it 
better. She had been married almost 
as soon as she had left the convent, 
where her youth was spent, and it 
often seemed to her that she had 
only exchanged prisons. She even 
contrasted this prison, where she had 
only gloomy old rooms to wander 
through, and the caprices of an old 
man to study, with that other one, 
where, although the walls were severe, 
the garden walks were full of light- 
hearted girls, whose laughter made 
even the black-robed sisters smile. 
Sometimes she wished with real home- 


THE WHITWELLS. 


51 


sickness for the old convent days, 
but usually the strain of her life was 
onward toward that fairy life of 
pleasure from which her husband was 
resting. 

While she sat half listening to his 
tales, her own imagination took wild 
and airy flights. Along the Bois 
de Boulogne, through the Champs 
Elysees, she seemed to see a line of 
stately equipages, perfect in every 
detail, filled with lovely women, 
whose gay smiles were answered by 
the courtly cavaliers who rode beside 
them. In the most brilliant of the 
carriages she saw herself, happiest 
and most admired of all. Or per- 
haps it was a ballroom where, in a 
costume of unimagined grace and 
beauty, she floated on in a never- 
ending waltz to strains of longing, 
beseeching, tender music. Her far- 
away melancholy eyes would come 
back to earth with a cold glitter when 
her husband, rising, said : “ Come, 
we must go in ; it is getting damp and 
I shall have my rheumatism again.” 

She did not say much, and she 
did nothing, but the inward coolness 


52 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


became daily more apparent. Before 
Claire was born, Mr. Whitwell, who 
was by no means without knowledge 
of human nature, fully realized that 
he had made a mistake ; that is, he 
realized it from his own standpoint. 
He accepted the fact that the solitude 
in which he chose to spend the re- 
mainder of his life was not to be 
cheered, as he had hoped, by the lov- 
ing devotion and gentle mirth of a 
young wife. He was sorry for him- 
self, and looking around for something 
to take the place of the relaxation 
which he had planned, he happened 
on a friend who was a celebrated 
microscopist. He plunged into the 
study of microbiology, and, fired with 
an amateur’s zeal, began to form a 
collection which he intended to be- 
queath to Harvard University as a 
memorial of himself. 

Winter passed, and Claire was born. 
For a little while Rose amused her- 
self with the baby, as with a new 
toy ; but with the spring, and re- 
turning strength, all the old longings 
took possession of her, and finally 
found expression. She wrote to her 


THE WHITWELLS. 


53 


mother, and obtained the desired in- 
vitation. Armed with her mother’s 
letter, she went into the library 
where Mr. Whitwell sat poring over 
his microscope, in which he had just 
placed a new and rare atom. 

Mamma writes that she wishes 
very much to see me,” she said. 
“ She asks that I should come across 
as early as possible. They are going 
to Paris for May and June, and she 
wishes me to go with them. Have 
you any objection ? ” 

Mr. Whitwell looked up carelessly. 

“ It is out of the question,” he said. 
“ I cannot possibly leave my work at 
present.” 

She hesitated for a moment, then 
with charming politeness bowed in 
acknowledgment of the weighty im- 
portance of his work. 

No, mamma does not dare to 
hope that you will be able to come 
with me, but she says that Augustine 
can take me over perfectly well. She 
has crossed so many times.” 

Suddenly Mr. Whitwell seemed to 
understand. He pushed his chair 
back from the table, took his glasses 


54 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


off, and regarded her steadily. It 
would not do to make a mistake now. 

“ If you go you will have to leave 
the child here. I cannot consent 
that she should go.” 

For a moment her eyes quailed, 
and her color came and went. 

“ I agree with you. It is better 
that she should stay.” 

A few days later Mr. Whitwell 
wrote to his sister : “ Rose has gone 
to France to her mother. She will 
not return, and I shall need your 
help and advice in the care of the 
child.” 

At the same time, on the deck of 
the outgoing steamer, Rose Whitwell 
walked up and down wdth light and 
airy tread. She watched the hills 
and headlands as the ship left them 
behind, and felt the chains of ennui 
and weariness drop from her with 
each point that faded from sight. 
Her pulses thfobbed, her eyes shone, 
and she said, in a low, happy tone to 
herself : “ Ah ! mon Dieu ! How 

delicious it is to be free ! ” 

There was never any scandal. It 
was understood at first that Mrs. 


THE WHITWELLS. 


55 


Whitwell would return in the autumn ; 
then that she was not very strong ; 
that she was spending the winter in a 
milder climate, and would come back 
in the spring. Gradually people for- 
got to ask for her. Claire grew up 
chiefly under Mrs. Atterbury’s care, 
although Mr. Whitwell selected her 
schools, and considered himself in 
every respect a model father. Her 
vacations were spent with her aunt ; 
Robert and Dave always hoped to 
find her there when they came home 
from school. 

Her pale, ivory skin, black eyes, 
and soft yellow hair made a combi- 
nation of color that always attracted 
the attention of strangers. They 
would look at her as they passed, 
then turn and look again. The charm 
she had for those who knew her was, 
however, not in her beauty, but in 
the witchery of her impulsive, pas- 
sionate, French nature, mingled as it 
was with occasional moods of puri- 
tanical and almost preternatural 
gravity. 

Each year she received two or 
three letters from her mother. They 


56 ROBERT ATTERBURY, 


were always accompanied by some 
little gift, and always expressed tKe 
hope of seeing her soon. Just before 
the time when Robert went away with 
Dave on their useless search for health 
and life, Mr. Whitwell died, quite 
suddenly. After the funeral was over 
Mrs. Atterbury closed the old house, 
and took Claire home with her. They 
had telegraphed to Mrs. Whitwell, 
but neither Claire nor her aunt had 
any thought that the change would 
bring her nearer to them. Great was 
their surprise when, on the arrival of 
the next French steamer, Mrs. Whit- 
well presented herself in person. 

Time had dealt gently with her, 
and in the clinging robes and long 
veil of her widowhood she looked 
even younger than she was. Her 
demonstrative joy at seeing Claire, 
her tender, caressing tones, and the 
little exclamations of delight over 
each beauty and grace which she 
found in the girl, completely won her 
daughter’s heart ; and it was with 
joyful anticipations, if with present 
pain, that she made ready to accom- 
pany her mother back to France. 


THE WHITWELLS. 


57 


Troubles came so thick and fast 
to the Atterburys that they did not 
follow Claire closely in her short 
career of pleasure. After a year or 
so they received a letter telling them 
that she was to be married to Peter 
Van Ruger Blethen. They had many 
sad misgivings when they read it. 
Robert knew Blethen very well ; had 
known him as a boy, and later in col- 
lege. He had not seen him for sev- 
eral years, but he knew that Blethen 
could not be such a man as he 
would have wished his warm-hearted, 
impressionable little cousin to marry. 
There was nothing to be done, how- 
ever. Robert and his mother were 
in Southern California, watching the 
slow days take with them the little 
remaining strength of their dear in- 
valid. The v/edding would be over 
before they could interfere, even if 
their interference would accomplish 
anything ; so they sent kind wishes, 
and hoped for the best. 

A few months later Robert re- 
ceived a letter from a friend who was 
a student in Paris. It gave him some 
unpleasant details regarding the affair, 


58 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


and confirmed his misgivings about 
it. The letter told him that Van 
Ruger had been living at a terrible 
pace, and that both his doctor and 
banker had whistled down brakes ; 
that the former had strongly advised 
him to marry and settle down ; that 
the devil, in the shape of a mutual 
friend, had pointed out Claire to 
him, and suggested that it might be 
amusing to marry her, adding that 
she was young, very pretty, and that 
her ample fortune would repair the 
ravages which the pleasures of the 
past had made in his own. 

Later, from time to time, they 
learned that the Blethens had re- 
turned to Boston, had opened the fam- 
ily house on Commonwealth Avenue, 
and were entertaining a number of 
their friends from Paris with every 
kind of pleasure and amusement which 
the vicinity offered. Claire’s letters 
were infrequent, but Mrs. Atterbury 
supposed this to be owing to the press 
of her social engagements, and did 
not consider it seriously. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

P. VAN RUGER BLETHEN. 

S Robert seated himself in 
the car which was going 
into Boston, he for the 
first time tried to under- 
stand Blethen’s note. What 
in the world did it mean ? 
Claire gone ? Where and how ? Nei- 
ther his knowledge nor his imagina- 
tion came to his assistance ; but of one 
thing he was certain — there was bitter 
trouble involved in the mystery, and 
already he began to feel his sympa- 
thies rallying around Claire. She 
might have been rash and foolish, 
but nothing more,' he was sure. The 
nearer he drew to town the less he 
desired to see Van Ruger, and when 
he arrived at his door it required all 
of his almost brotherly love for Claire 
to make him ring the bell. 



6o 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Mr. Blethen is waiting for you,” 
the servant said. 

Robert went up into the old rooms, 
where he had occasionally called 
years before. Blethen was sitting at 
his writing table, smoking. His face 
was gloomy almost to ferociousness, 
but he sprang up and greeted Robert 
eagerly : 

“ You are very kind to come so 
soon,” he said. “ Have you just 
come in? The train was late, I sup- 
pose. It always is late. Sit down. 
It is dreadfully hot. Will you take 
something — a cigar, brandy and soda, 
or anything ? I am in a deuce of a 
row, or I would not have troubled 
you.” 

Robert took a cigar, and, after 
lighting it, sat in silence, waiting. 
Slowly the eagerness died out of 
Blethen’s face. He seemed to find 
some difficulty in beginning. 

‘‘You see,” he said, “Claire lived 
so much with you when she was on 
this side, that I thought you would 
be just the one to know where to 
look for her. It is deuced awkward, 
because I cannot make any inquiries. 


P. VAN RUGER BLETHEN. 6 1 


Of course the most important thing 
is to keep people from finding out 
that I do not know where she is.” 
Then, replying to a look of Robert’s, 
he went on, ‘‘Oh, no ! I am not 
alarmed about her, not in the least. 
She is too ” — he hesitated, and sub- 
stituted “ timid ” for the word which 
had come to him first — “ too timid 
to do herself any harm ; but what I 
want is to prevent any scandal, any 
notoriety, don’t you know ? It is so 

d d disagreeable to a fellow to 

have his wife talked about.” 

“Perhaps you had better tell me 
all about it,” Robert said. 

“ Well,” said Blethen, “ you know, 
or rather you don’t know, but we 
have been spending the summer at 
my little cottage up on the North 
Shore. I took Claire there because 
it is just the place for her now ; cool 
and near the water and very quiet. 
She is not in a condition to wish to 
see people, and I thought it would 
suit her perfectly. She is rather dif- 
ficult at the best of times, as you 
probably know, but since she has 
not been well she has been simply 


62 


ROBERT ATTERBURY, 


impossible. I am not telling you 
this to find fault, however ; only be- 
cause you will have to know that 
there have been scenes ; sometimes 
because I did not go down, some- 
times because I did. Anyway, 
yesterday morning I telegraphed to 
her that I would be detained by busi- 
ness until very late, and so would not 
be down. In the afternoon I went 
out for a spin along the river, when 
who should come along but Leslie 
Fay, an old friend of mine, as you 
may remember. There is absolutely 
no one in town, and she looked so 
longingly at me that I had not the 
heart to refuse her, so I drew up and 
told her to jump in. She has a lot 
of sense. She took a thick veil out 
of her pocket and tied it over her 
face, so that no one in the world 
w'ould have known her. We drove 
for an hour or so, and were just com- 
ing into town. I was thinking where 
I had better leave Leslie, when we 
came around a corner right upon the 
Evanston carriage. Emma Evans- 
ton was on the front seat with the 
driver, and on the back seat, with 


P. VAN RUGER BLETHEN. 63 


Mrs. Evanston, who but Claire her- 
self ? She leaned forward and looked 
at us. I whipped up and we passed 
like a flash, but I saw that she 
turned pale and looked at me with 
positive hatred. Of course I shook 
Leslie as soon as possible, and came 
here. She was not here. Then I 
went to the Evanston house. They 
were just starting back to the shore, 
and said they had left Claire here. 
Then I came back.” His face 
changed a little. “ She was not here, 
but 1 found evidence that she had 
been. Then I went down to the cot- 
tage. She was not there, and the 
servant said that she had gone for a 
drive with the Evanstons and had not 
come back with them. That was all 
I could find out. I instructed the 
servant to telegraph me if she re- 
turned, and then came back to town. 
To-day I have been everywhere that 
there seemed to be the least chance of 
finding her. It is pretty hard work, 
going about in this infernal heat, and 

it's a d d outrage, too ! The 

silly girl ! It all comes from the 
ridiculous way in which girls are 


64 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


brought up. It is not enough that 
they are kept absolutely ignorant of 
the world as it really is, but they 
have a lot of the most absurd prej- 
udices, so that an ordinary man 
of the world, such as I am, has 
no idea what to do with them. I 
can tell you, a man has little 
idea what he is in for when he gets 
married.” 

“ Perhaps it would be as well not 
to discuss that,” said Robert, “ but 
to try and find Claire.” 

“ Yes, that is what I want. And 
now, have you any idea where she 
would be likely to go ? Any old 
friends or something of that sort ? 
She is only trying to frighten or an- 
noy me, or both.” 

Robert had said almost nothing. 
He felt a positive loathing for Blethen, 
and yet he was sorry for him, 
too. The years had written their 
story on his face, and Robert read 
there how absolutely unfit he was to 
solve any real problem of life, or to 
meet any emergency in a manly, 
straightforward way. Weak, dis- 
solute, and self-indulgent, he could 


P. VAN RUGER BLETHEN. 65 


understand nothing except from the 
standpoint of his own desires. 

What do you suppose Claire 
thought when she saw you driving 
with Leslie?” Robert finally asked. 

“ Oh, I don’t know ! She has such 
high and mighty ideas about every- 
thing ; she does not think a man has 
a right to any liberty.” 

Does she know of your former 
relations with Leslie ? ” 

Blethen moved a little uneasily in 
his chair. 

I am afraid she does,” he 
answered. “You see, Atterbury, I 
am not a bad fellow at all. I only 
do what everybody else does ; and, by 
Jove ! I did not know that a girl 
could be as ignorant and prejudiced 
as Claire was when we were married. 
I give you my word I was as in- 
nocent of any intentional offense as a 
babe unborn the first time I told her 
a funny story which was going the 
rounds. She turned on me as if I 
were not fit for her to walk on, and 
asked what kind of people I had 
lived with to know such things. She 
actually forbade me ever to tell her 


66 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


such a thing again. Since then she 
has always been more or less suspi- 
cious, and I do not know how much 
she knows. But the question is, do 
you think that you can find her ? ” ' 

I think I can find her ; indeed, 
I know that I will find her,” Robert 
answered. “ I am not going to dis- 
cuss the matter with you, Blethen, 
but I may as well say that I do not 
think it probable that she will come 
back to you.” 

A spasm of something like real 
pain crossed Blethen’s weak face, and 
instantly gave place to a look of pas- 
sionate anger. 

“ D n it all ! ” he broke out. 

“I would be glad enough to cut the 
whole thing, and be rid of her, if it 
were not for what people will say. 
Why a man wants to tie himself to a 
whining, puritanical wife, when there 
are plenty of women who know how 
to make themselves agreeable and 
keep their own places, is more than I 
know.” 

He was walking up and down the 
room, his eyes bloodshot, his voice 
quivering with passion. 


P. VAN RUGER BLETHEN. 67 


“ She has got to come back, I say ! 
I won’t be treated in this way ! I 
won’t be made the laughing stock 

of the whole town by the d d 

little ” He did not finish the 

sentence. Robert caught his arm, 
and one look into Atterbury’s face 
silenced him. He threw himself into 
his chair, and, putting his head upon 
the table, burst into hysterical sobs. 

“ I will send you word in the morn- 
ing whether I have found her or not.” 
So saying, Robert went out and 
closed the door. He walked away 
with a heavy heart. “ The man is a 
coward, and more than half a liar 
too,” he said to himself. He knew 
the story had been only half told. 
At the end of the room he had seen 
an uncleared table which had been 
laid for two, and beside the wine 
glasses lay a woman’s glove, a long 
evening glove, and on the floor were 
faded Devoniensis roses. 



CHAPTER IX. 

CLAIRE. 

HERE was no hesitation on 
Robert’s part as to the di- 
rection in which he should 
first look for Claire. In the 
porter’s lodge, at the gate of 
the house where she was born, lived 
her old nurse. Robert had little 
doubt that he would find her there. It 
was now nine o’clock, and the heat 
was still insupportable. He hurried 
as fast as possible in order to catch 
the nine-thirty train for Concord. 

When he arrived at the lodge every- 
thing was in darkness, except that a 
dim light shone under the blinds of 
the front room. Robert smiled to 
see it ; his question was already 
answered. In response to his knock, 
he heard heavy steps ascend the 
stairs, and in a minute the upper 



CLAIRE. 


69 


window was slowly raised and old 
Nancy put her head cautiously out. 

“ Who be you ? ” she asked. 

“ Nancy, it is I, Robert Atterbury. 
Will you let me in ? ” 

“ For the Lord’s sake ! ” she ejacu- 
lated. “ It’s Mr. Robert. Whatever 
shall I do ? ” 

“ Come Nancy, be quick, please,” 
Robert said. “ I am very tired.” 

The old woman came downstairs, 
talking to herself, and opened the 
door a little way, evidently in doubt 
as to what she ought to do. Robert 
pushed it open and entered. 

“Where is Mrs. Blethen ? ” he 
asked. 

He closed the outer door, and put 
out his hand to open that of the 
front room. 

“ No, no ; you mustn’t go in there,” 
old Nancy began. 

Robert had opened the door ; he 
stood on the threshold, and Claire 
was before him. She lay on the 
black haircloth sofa, her eyes red 
and swollen from much crying, her 
whole attitude expressive of absolute 
despair. She rose to her feet and 


70 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


turned angrily toward Robert, evi- 
dently thinking it was her husband 
who had come. When she saw who 
it was she sat down. 

“ Robert ! You here ? What 
have you come for ? ” she asked 
coldly. 

“To find you, dear,” he answered. 
“ Are you not glad to see me ? ” 

“ No. I shall never be glad of 
anything again,” she said. 

She did not look at him again, nor 
speak to him. She sat with her 
hands clasped before her, her head 
bowed in utter misery, her eyes fixed 
on the floor. Robert gazed at her 
with absolute wonder. Could two 
short years have changed the gay, 
debonair girl, whom he remembered, 
into this hollow-eyed, stern, and 
most unbeautiful woman ? He did 
not know what to do or say. 

“Well,” she finally said, “I sup- 
pose you agree with Van Ruger. 
He says no woman who looks as I do 
could expect a man to stay with her. 
You evidently think so, too. You 
had better go back and sympathize 
with him. I do not want you here, 


CLAIRE. 


71 


you may be sure. One thing, since 
you have come, you may as well tell 
him — that I shall stay here. And he 
shall not come here ; tell him that, 
too. I will never see him again, and 
never enter his house again ; tell him 
that, please, and make it very plain 
to him.” 

I am not going back just now, 
dear,” he said, “ and when I do go 
it will not be to Blethen. You know 
we have just come home, mother and 
I, and we hoped ” 

She sprang up and went to him, 
the tears filling her eyes. 

“ Oh, Robert, forgive me ! ” she 
said. “ I am so selfish and so wicked ! 
I forgot for a moment. Poor Dave ! 
Poor, darling auntie ! I have grieved 
so for it all. I have so longed to 
go to you. Did you think it very 
strange that I did not come when 
Dave grew worse ? I wanted to, oh 
so much ! but I couldn’t.” She 
added bitterly : “ I never can do 
anything that I want to now. Tell 
me about auntie, and about Dave, 
too, if you can.” 

So Robert talked to her quietly and 


72 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


sadly, holding her hand in his. In a 
little while she seemed quite her old 
self again. 

“ Mother will come out for you to- 
morrow,” he said, “and you will 
come home with her, will you not ? ” 

“ No,” she said, “ no, Robert. I 
will not go away from here. I can 
stay here away from everyone, and 
bury my misery. Oh, you do not 
know, you cannot imagine, what I 
have suffered ; all the shame and 
degradation and horror of the past 
year ! That^ at least, I have ended ; 
I will never go back to it again, 
never ! ” 

“ I do not ask you to go back to 
Blethen,” he said ; “ but only to come 
to us now. You can decide every- 
thing else afterward.” 

She got up and moved away from 
him. 

“ No,” she said. “ I do not want 
you to help me, nor anyone else. 
No one can help me ; there is no 
cure for me. I am ill, and wretched, 
and wicked. Yes, wicked,” she re- 
peated, and her eyes began to blaze 
and her cheeks to flush. “ I suffer 


CLAIRE. 


73 


horribly, but I would endure any- 
thing, anything, to make him suffer 
as I do. He said to me yesterday, 
‘ You are a pretty looking wife for a 
man to come home to. Perhaps you 
think it amuses me to play sick 
nurse,' and then he went off to amuse 
himself with — those other women, 
whom he likes so much better than 
he does me. He says they know 
their business, and that a man does 
not have them dragging around after 
him all the time. Don’t think that I 
want him to care for me ; I don’t ; 
because I hate him ! but it is so terri- 
ble to be only one in the long line of 
the women in his life. I feel so de- 
graded, so loathsome, and, oh, how 
I envy them ! Yes, I do. I envy 
them. Do they have this to bear ? 
Are they old, and ugly, and ill ? ” 

She was wringing her hands now 
and sobbing violently. 

Don’t, Claire, please don’t,” 
Robert said ; “ if not for your own 
sake, then ” 

“ Hush ! ” she said. “ Don’t finish 
it. I will not be careful for its sake. 
I want it to die. What do you sup- 


74 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


pose I want it for ? I tell you I hate 
it ! Look at what it has done for me 
— and I cannot get away, I cannot 
do anything. Oh, what shall I do, 
what shall I do ? ” 

Suddenly she came to Robert and 
knelt beside him, clasping her hands 
on his knee and looking up at him 
with wild, frightened eyes. 

“ Oh, Robert ! ” she whispered, 
“ I am so afraid, so terribly afraid. 
I cannot bear it, the horrible pain, 
and — I am so afraid — I am sure that 
I am going to die. Oh, I cannot 
die ! I cannot die ! ” 

She sank to the floor, completely 
prostrated. Robert lifted her up 
and laid her on the sofa. Then he 
sat down beside her. He put her 
head upon his breast and softly as a 
mother soothes her suffering child, 
he quieted her, talking in tender 
tones and comforting words. 
Slowly the sobs ceased, and by and 
she slept. 

Morning had dawned when Nancy 
came in, and they succeeded in put- 
ting a pillow under Claire’s head 
without waking her. Then, without 


CLAIRE. 


75 


waiting for even a cup of coffee, 
Robert started for the train. He 
thought he would go home, and tell 
his mother the main facts in the 
matter, and leave Claire in her 
hands, while he took the rest of 
which he stood in so great need. 




CHAPTER X. 

DISASTER. 

HEN Robert opened the 
door and stepped out, he 
thought the cool air which 
struck him was only the 
morning freshness ; but 
when he came out into the road he 
found that one of the sudden changes 
of the New England climate was 
upon them. The temperature had 
fallen many degrees, and the east 
wind was blowing strong and cold 
from the ocean. His thin summer 
clothes offered slight protection to 
his already exhausted frame. 

He hurried on, but before he 
reached the train he knew that he 
had taken cold. That unmistakable 
sense of great fatigue, which seems 
to start in the bones and to creep 
over the whole body, gave warning 



DISASTER. 


77 


of a coming chill. He fought 
against it. He summoned all his 
strength of will and purpose to 
oppose the enemy whose approach 
struck terror to his soul ; but in was 
in vain. In one corner of the car, 
where he tried to shelter himself, he 
shook from head to foot, and his 
teeth chattered. 

When the train reached Boston 
he called a cabman, took a blanket 
that had covered the man’s horse, 
and, telling him to drive at once to 
Dr. Newton’s, sprang into the cab. 
The horse started off at a quick 
pace, and the vehicle jolted over a 
rough pavement. Robert swayed 
forward, then put his handkerchief 
to his mouth to meet the rush of 
warm blood which filled it. He 
looked at the crimson stain, and 
knew his fate. 

“ Oh, my love, my precious love ! " 
he moaned. 

Rapidly there passed before him 
the closing scenes of his father’s life 
and of Dave’s, and he felt that they 
were about to be repeated in his 
own. It was horrible ! Life had 


78 ROBERT ATTERBURV. 


just become so beautiful, so wonder- 
ful ! He cowered before the blow, 
and Death triumphed over him. 

Weeks passed. Robert’s mother 
watched and tended him with cease- 
less devotion, birt with a breaking 
heart. For himself, he submitted 
to all the wearisome round of medi- 
cal treatment without question and 
without hope. He wished that his 
mother and the doctor should feel, 
afterward, that they had done what 
they could ; but he had no expecta- 
tion of being better. 

Before his mind there was con- 
tinually the one thing which he 
had still to do. That thing accom- 
plished, they might do what seemed 
good to them. 

“We must get him away,” the 
doctor said. “ The disease is not 
yet settled, and in a milder climate, 
with good care, he may have many 
years yet before him. I think a 
voyage on a good clipper ship is the 
best thing for him. If he goes at 
once he will get into the south 
before the cold weather has really 


DISASTER. 


79 


come, and the warm sea air may do 
wonders for him.” 

“ I am not a very good sailor, but 
of course I shall go with him,” Mrs. 
Atterbury said. “ We will stay 
together as long as we can.” 

Her voice quivered, but she would 
not give way to her grief. Already 
she felt the coming of the days when 
Grief and she would sit together at 
her desolate hearth, and she forbade 
his presence now. 

“ I do not understand Robert’s 
great depression,” she added. “ Usu- 
ally, in these cases, the last person to 
be convinced of danger is the pa- 
tient ; but he has been hopeless from 
the first.” 

The doctor looked very grave. 

“ That complicates matters,” he 
said. “ There may be something on 
his mind, or his nerves may be 
unstrung.” 

The doctor, who was also Mrs. 
Atterbury’s lifelong friend, had a 
painful duty to perform. He felt 
that it was necessary to oppose her, 
but he did it with infinite tenderness, 
gentleness. 


8o 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


“ My dear Mrs. Atterbury,” he 
said, “ if you will be guided by me, 
you will not go with Robert. Not 
on your own account, of course, but 
because it will be far better for him 
to be in the care of a young, strong, 
light-hearted man ; one who, while 
taking intelligent care of him, will 
not himself be depressed by anxious 
fears. Now, John Richards has just 
returned from Berlin. He is a full- 
fledged M. D., and he wished to 
come into my office. I like him very 
much, and have been thinking of tak- 
ing him to relieve me of some of my 
night duties. Suppose we see if he 
would not like to go on this voyage 
with your son ? It seems to me that 
he would fulfill all the requirements 
of the case.” 

The blow struck home. Mrs. 
Atterbury bowed her head in silent 
agony, but, motherlike, she resigned 
her last sad pleasure to even a faint 
hope of prolonging her son’s life. 

When they told the plan to Robert, 
he listened without interest, recog- 
nizing in it only one step of the well- 
known path. After his mother and 


DISASTER. 


8l 


the doctor had left the room he 
ordered the nurse to bolster him up 
with pillows, and to give him pencil 
and paper. He was white when he 
began to write, and the cheek bones 
seemed ready to protrude through 
the transparent skin. As he wrote, 
bright, hectic spots burned red on 
his cheeks. He began slowly : 

Beloved, I must be strong, for your dear 
sake 

There he stopped, looked at what 
he had written, and tore it up. “I 
need not tell her that I must be 
strong," he thought. “ I must be 
really so." He leaned back on the 
pillows and closed his eyes. From 
under the lids two bitter tears found 
way, and on his forehead stood great 
drops of sweat. Again he took the 
pencil and this is what he wrote : 

Beloved, a great calamity has befallen us. 
I am stricken down by the same fatal dis- 
ease which has taken so many of my family. 
There is no hope ; I am already as a man 
dead. 

What can T do for you, O my love? 
Would that my arms might be around you 
when you feel this blow, that my breast might 


82 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


receive the tears which you will shed for me. 
I know, my love, all that you would say, all 
that you would wish to do ; but I will not 
have it so. I give you up. 

What can you do for me, dearest ? I will 
tell you. Live I From this deathbed let my 
voice reach your soul and give you help and 
strength. Live out all the grand possibilities 
of your great woman’s nature. 

Give way to your grief for a little while, 
dear love ; then rise to meet what Life brings 
to you. I see her coming, in her hands all 
joys and pains, wifehood, motherhood. Ful- 
fill yourself, beloved, and do not let me cast a 
shadow upon you. I, who owe to you all the 
bliss of my life, bless you. 

AVhen he had sealed the letter he 
sent the man out to post it and lay 
quietly back upon the pillow. Pres- 
ently his mother bent over him, 
listening to his breathing. He 
opened his eyes and looked at her, 
and she smiled at him — one of those 
heart-breaking smiles, so much sadder 
than tears. His lips moved and she 
stooped low to catch the faint sound. 

“ The bitterness of death is passed," 
he said. 

That night he slept well, and the 
next day he seemed better and 


DISASTER. 


83 


Stronger, so that the doctor, who was 
impatient to get him off, urged that 
he should go on one of the steamers 
to Aspinwall and then cross over to 
Panama, where he could get a ship 
bound for some of the South Pacific 
Islands. He made no objection to 
anything, so in less than a week he 
was carried on board a steamer and, 
with Dr. Richards, was southward 
bound. 

The days were wonderful in the 
beauty of the Indian summer. The 
doctor put Robert on a long steamer 
chair where the warm salt air was 
around him and the sun shone on 
him. He lay, looking now at the 
blue sky, now, as the great ship 
rolled from side to side, at the heav- 
ing billows. He recognized all the 
soothing influences around him, and 
he thought they were ministrant 
angels who were lulling him to his 
last sleep. He had no more to do on 
sea or shore ; he had made his last 
perfect sacrifice ; now he had but to 
wait. 

But God’s angels come with heal- 
ing in their wings. 



CHAPTER XI. 

MADAME, LA BELLE-M^:RE. 

FTER Robert had left him, 
Van Ruger Blethen sat 
long beside his table in 
sullen anger. Social con- 
demnation was the one 
thing which he feared, and now that 
he realized that Robert would not 
stand by him, he saw that it might be 
in store for him. In imagination he 
met the hypocritical condolences and 
covert sneers of his friends and ac- 
quaintances, and he ground his teeth 
with rage. His mind ran over all the 
people from whom he could ask as- 
sistance. 

Suddenly he sprang from his chair, 
a new look of hope coming into his 
bloodshot eyes. 

“By Jove,” he exclaimed, “the 



MADAME, LA BELLE-MERE. 85 


very thing ! I wonder I did not 
think of her before.” 

He went out and cabled to Mrs. 
Whitwell : 

We need your assistance. Can you come 
at once ? 

He returned to his room with quite 
a light heart. Under the charming 
frankness and exquisite politeness of 
his French mother-in-law, he had al- 
ways recognized the knowledge and 
wisdom of a perfect woman of the 
world. He felt sure the present 
crisis would never have come if Claire 
had grown up under her influence ; 
and even now he believed that she 
would be able to make Claire listen 
to reason, as he called it. He smiled 
to himself as he laid his head on his 
pillow, and he slept the sleep of the 
just — calm and full of peace. 

Claire also slept long and well. 
The day was nearly gone when she 
awoke to realize with her first con- 
sciousness that her time was come. 
Nancy summoned the village doctor, 
and Claire, calling her Puritan na- 
ture to her aid, fought her battle 


86 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


alone and almost calmly. Through 
the long hours of suffering she ut- 
tered no complaint, and was quietly 
obedient to the doctor. 

Then, as another new day came in 
over the sea, a new life, unwished for 
and unwelcomed, added its cry to the 
chorus of human voices. 

When the doctor had gone, Nancy 
brought the baby to the bedside. 

** Don’t ye want to kiss your boy, 
my lamb ? ” she asked. 

Claire turned her head away with 
a weary sigh, and Nancy sat down, 
crooning to the baby in her sweet, old- 
country brogue, and waiting for Mrs. 
Atterbury to come. She did not 
know what was wrong, but her true 
woman’s heart yearned over the little 
one. Its guardian angel — one of 
those who always behold the face of 
the Father — may have recognized in 
her the true mother ; at any rate, a 
few hours later, when Van Ruger 
learned Claire’s whereabouts and all 
that had transpired, and sent doctors 
and attendants out to her, no one 
thought for a moment of giving the 
baby to anyone but Nancy. It was 


MADAME, LA BELLE-MERE. 87 


a happy fate for one born an orphan, 
into a family which was no family, 
with parents who were neither father 
nor mother. 

Van Ruger did not intrude upon 
Claire. Every day he sent out to in- 
quire how she was, and at the club 
he offered himself for the congratu- 
lations of his acquaintances. He 
posed as a happy father, and to all 
inquiries said that his wife had taken 
a fancy to go down to her old home 
for the happy occasion, adding that 
of course, under the circumstances, 
her lightest whim was his law. This 
was the outside ; inwardly he was 
waiting with great anxiety. 

Eh bien^ monsieur! You have 
indeed the kindest heart in the world, 
and the best intentions. That we 
know ; but is it not possible that you 
have not exactly known how to man- 
age the young wife ! That is so 
necessary. It is even possible that 
she has been triste. One may be 
very triste in this country. Ah, mon 
Dieu ! Yes. I remember it well. 
Now if you had more amused her. 


88 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


might it not have been well? To 
me that is the grand secret. Bien ! 
We shall see, I have no fears ; all will 
be well, I am sure. We will surprise 
her with a little gayety, n^est ce pas ? ” 

Van Ruger was glad to do what- 
ever he was told, and under the 
direction of his mother-in-law began 
to open his town house and prepare 
for the reception of his wife and 
child. 

In the almost bare bedroom of 
the lodge, Claire sat in old Nancy's 
big armchair. She wore a simple, 
dark blue wrapper, her hair was 
brushed straight back above her 
melancholy eyes, and in neither her 
face nor her surroundings was there 
any trace of grace or beauty. Her 
ringless fingers were clasped tightly 
in her lap, and their strained tension 
seemed to assert utter abnegation of 

joy- 

Into this unattractive apartment 
entered her mother, bringing at once 
the indescribable atmosphere of per- 
fectly ordered worldly life. Her 
costume, the rhythmic motion of her 


MADAME, LA BELLE-M^RE. 89 


Step, the perfect delicacy with which 
she changed the exclamation of 
horror, which had risen involuntarily 
to her lips, into one of enthusiastic 
and sympathetic greeting, all be- 
longed to a world from which Claire 
had banished herself, , to a world 
which she had fancied she hated and 
loathed. Her mother noticed in- 
stantly that the child was not in the 
room, and with great tact refrained 
from asking for it. In a few minutes, 
while she made tender little speeches 
and covered the pale face with kisses, 
she had caressed the soft hair into its 
wonted waves. Taking from her 
own shoulders a scarf of daintiest 
lace and rose-colored ribbons, she 
threw it around Claire, hiding the 
uncouth gown. 

“ Ah ! Comme (a va bien avec les 
joues transparentes / ” 

Then, holding the thin hands 
caressingly in her own, she talked of 
Paris, of their friends there, and of 
what was in anticipation. Without 
going into details she spoke as if 
Claire must be interested in it all, 
because she would have her part in 


90 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


all. With no discussion she suc- 
ceeded in arranging that her daugh- 
ter should drive with her in a few 
days, and in spite of herself Claire 
was glad to go. 

When the day for the drive arrived 
Mrs. Whitwell sent her own maid to 
dress Claire. She brought with her 
a lovely wrap of bronze velvet 
trimmed with gray ostrich tips, and 
a dainty bonnet to match it. Mrs. 
Whitwell had selected them in Paris, 
and her taste was faultless. 

Claire sat before the glass, but she 
was not looking at herself. The 
deft hands of the maid piled the 
fluffy light hair in puffs and waves 
upon her small, shapely head, and 
placed upon it the dark bonnet which 
brought out in perfection its pale 
golden gleams. Silently and rapidly 
she worked, asking no questions, but 
instinctively and artistically making 
the best and most of everything. 
When all was finished she stood for 
a moment contemplating her work. 

I hope that madame is satisfied," 
she said. 

Claire had been absorbed in the 


MADAME, LA BELLE-MERE. 9I 


thoughts which her mother’s coming 
had awakened. Why should she not 
go back to Paris with her, and live 
there? Her mother had always fas- 
cinated her, and the memory of those 
short years of delight the two had 
spent together came back to Claire’s 
senses with seducing sweetness. 

The sound of the maid’s voice 
recalled her to the present. She 
glanced at the mirror, then leaned 
forward and looked critically at her- 
self. It was a poor little glass — old 
Nancy’s ; but from it there looked an 
exquisite picture. The face was per- 
haps a little pale, the great dark eyes 
a little hard, but it was lovely ; it 
would win admiration anywhere. 
She smiled at it ; and when the ex- 
pression of the mouth softened and 
the eyes grew limpid with pleasure, 
she added another word to the one 
that had expressed her thought : it 
would win love. She felt her power. 
For the first time in her life she 
realized herself a Woman, by birth- 
right a ruler over men’s lives, born 
to subdue them by her beauty, her 
fascinations, and her knowledge of 


92 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


their weaknesses. She longed to 
begin her triumph. 

When her mother drove up for her 
she stepped into the carriage, caring 
nothing that it was Van Ruger’s car- 
riage in which she was to be shown 
to all her acquaintances who might 
meet them on the road. She thought 
only of herself and her coming life, 
and no consciousness of Van Ruger 
troubled her plans for the future. 

They drove for a little while, Mrs. 
Whitwell expressing the greatest de- 
light in Claire’s appearance. Her 
manner was caressing and tender ; 
she seemed to be simply rejoiced to 
see her daughter’s returning health, 
and to be with her. 

“ When do you return to Paris ? ” 
Claire asked abruptly. I am going 
with you.” 

Her mother hesitated just an in- 
stant before she answered. 

That is most sweet in you,” she 
said, with smiling cordiality. “ I shall 
love to have my little queen go with 
me. I have not quite decided when 
I will go ; we have several things to 
do first. There are some friends of 


MADAME, LA BELLE-M^:RE. 93 


mine who come over with me. Van 
and I are planning to give them some 
pleasure, as soon as you are able to 
go with us. We wish to take them to 
the White Mountains and to some 
other places in this beautiful autumn 
weather. Then,” she went on, with- 
out giving Claire a chance to speak, 
“ I am also arranging for the christen- 
ing. Under the circumstances” — it 
was the first allusion which she had 
made to there being anything abnor- 
mal in their situation — “ it will be 
wise to make of the christening a 
n* est ce pas ? We are pre- 
paring it for a little surprise for you.” 
She noticed, from the corner of her 
eye, that Claire was very pale, and 
that her lips were compressed as if 
she with difficulty restrained a cry. 
She did not pause. “ I have done 
everything as you would have wished, 
and, my love, your gown is simply a 
dream. It is pale gold, just the color 
of your beautiful hair, and the train 
is of velvet, as becomes your new 
honors. The corsage is of satin and 
tulle ; it is entrancing. The christ- 
ening will be in the afternoon, as is 


94 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


most suitable, but we will have the 
house lighted by gas, because that is 
so much more effective. Van is 
having the conservatory prepared for 
the breakfast. There will be about 
a hundred people to sit down to the 
breakfast. It will be the most beau- 
tiful affair of the kind ever given 
here. The invitations are to go out 
for next week, Thursday.” 

She stopped to pat Claire’s hand 
lovingly and to smile at her. “ There 
is a secret,” she added softly, “ and 
I ought not to say anything about it, 
but Van has gotten for you the most 
magnificent rubies that I ever saw. 
He went to New York for them. 
There are earrings which are lovely, 
but the pendant ! I have no words 
to describe it. Just one great blazing 
ruby surrounded with tiny points of 
diamonds. It is a wonderful thing, 
and I am impatient to see it on your 
white throat, my darling.” 

“ I will not wear it ! ” burst from 
Claire. “ How dare he get a present 
for me ! I will have nothing to do 
with him, and he knows it perfectly 
well.” 


MADAME, LA BELLE-MERE. 95 


Her eyes were blazing, and her 
face expressed all the anger which 
she felt. Mrs. Whitwell laid her 
hand softly on Claire’s, and only 
smiled at her, but the girl felt that 
she had committed a blunder ; that in 
some way she had failed to live up to 
the social laws which governed her 
mother’s every word and look. She 
sank back in her seat, moody and 
silent. Presently her mother began 
to talk of other things. 

“I am most anxious,” she said, 
“that you should meet my friends. 
They are Mme. Troubat and her 
brother, M. Jean Sievert. She is 
my dearest friend ; indeed, we have 
been inseparable for more than a 
year. I met her at Spa, just after 
you had left me, and she consoled 
me in my loneliness. I am sure you 
will find her charming and sympa- 
thetic. Her brother also is delight- 
ful. He has one of those perfect 
natures that are, I think, peculiar to 
Frenchmen ; he wins your friendship 
at once by his frank kindness to you 
and his delicate understanding of 
you, while he is always so absolutely 


g6 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


maitre de soi that you have no fears, 
simply confidence.” 

Claire looked inquiringly at her 
mother. Could it be that she herself 
was fascinated by this man ? There 
was nothing to indicate it as she 
proceeded : 

“ Mme. Troubat and I had made 
all our arrangements to come over 
together. The night before we sailed, 
Jean, who was dining with us, an- 
nounced that he would accompany 
us. We expressed at once our de- 
light and our surprise at the unex- 
pected pleasure. ‘ Why this sudden 
resolution ? ’ his sister asked. ‘ I 
don’t know,' he replied ; ‘ I feel 
strongly drawn to the other side of 
the water. I don’t know what it is 
unless, perhaps, les beaux yeux of 
madame's daughter.’ He was stand- 
ing under your portrait, which hangs 
in the dining room, you remember, 
and of course it was only one of his 
gallant speeches. Still, he is most 
anxious to meet you, as is also Mme. 
Troubat.” 

When they arrived at the lodge 
again, Mrs. Whitwell went in for a 


MADAME, LA BELLE-MERE. 97 


little while. She waited until Claire's 
wraps were removed and the maid 
had left the room ; then she drew her 
chair close to the lounge where her 
daughter lay. 

“ Let us understand each other, 
Claire,” she said. 

In broken sentences Claire began 
her story, but even to herself it 
seemed very different in the light of 
those clear, worldly eyes of her 
mother. The bare outlines of facts 
she told, but the shame and self- 
abasement, the fierce anger against 
fate, and the passion of revolt, all 
these it was impossible to reveal in 
that cold, judicial presence. When 
she paused, her mother smiled icily, 
if indulgently. 

“ Fie ! ” she said. “ I did not 
think you could be so childish. It 
seems to me that you have absolutely 
nothing to complain of. Van has 
been always perfectly courteous and 
polite to you. He is liberal to a 
fault, and if not always thoughtful in 
arranging pleasures for you, he has 
but to have them suggested to be 
enthusiastic with regard to them. 


98 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


What more do you want ? For these 
other things, of which you seem to 
have made a bugbear, they are simply 
a part of life, common to all the 
world ; and I must tell you, my 
dear, it is a part of life with which 
you have nothing to do. It is not 
becoming in you to concern yourself 
with questions in regard to matters 
in your husband’s life which are out- 
side of yours. Ignorance of them is 
so desirable that I should greatly 
have hoped that you might have had 
the delicacy to feign it even if you 
did not possess it. It seems to me 
that you have everything that heart 
can desire, and I fear that you have 
been in danger of being ungrateful, 
if not unwomanly. Let us forget all 
these things, and look at the situa- 
tion fairly. On the one hand is a 
lovely home, life in the world, with 
charming friends to admire and 
amuse you, and all the countless joys 
and pleasures of society, with a hus- 
band who only asks that you accept 
with complacence the universal lot of 
women. You look surprised, but it 
is universal, no matter how it is 


MADAME, LA BELLE-MERE. 99 


accepted. On the other hand what 
have you before you ? A lonely life 
in this triste old house,” — she shud- 
dered, recalling her own experiences 
there, — “simply to let the days go by 
from youth to age ; nothing more. 
Think of it, and do not make a false 
step now. Van has taken every pre- 
caution, and no one even suspects 
that all is not well. It is impossible 
to estimate too highly his delicacy 
in the unfortunate circumstances in 
which he found himself. It only 
remains now for you to do your duty 
in a womanly way.” 

She leaned over and kissed the 
girl’s cold face. 

“ Tell me that I may take you 
home to-morrow.” 

Claire was silent. She thoroughly 
understood the pressure that was 
brought to bear on her. A great 
chill fell on her as she realized that 
her mother meant her to understand 
that she could not go to Paris with 
her as a woman separated from her 
husband. It seemed to her to be the 
very acme of injustice, in view of her 
mother’s own life, but she also knew 


lOO 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


that it would be in vain to appeal 
against it, that the decision which 
she made now was the final one. 

Still she hesitated. The vision of 
her own face, as she had seen it in 
the glass, came back to her. It 
was the “ all these things will I give 
thee if thou wilt fall down and wor- 
ship me.” She shuddered and still 
hesitated. The blood rushed to her 
pale face, tingeing with its color even 
her ears, and then sweeping back, 
left her painfully white. She raised 
herself upon her elbow, and her 
black eyes looked straight into her 
mother’s. 

“ I will go back to the house,” she 
said, “ and to everything ; but ” — 
the words were hard to say — “ it must 
be understood, entirely understood, 
that I will have my own apartments 
quite to myself.” 

She knew that appearances were 
what Van Ruger cared for most in 
the world. This was also under- 
stood by Mrs. Whitwell. She 
shrugged her shoulders slightly. 

“ <^a va s' arr anger , she said. 



CHAPTER XII. 

WHITWELL VAN HUGER BLETHEN. 

UT of doors the day was 
exquisite. The great sea 
outside the harbor lay 
sleeping, wrapped in the 
fleecy mists of the Indian 
summer. Its gentle breath served 
only to stir softly the yellow leaves 
that floated silently down from the 
great trees on the avenue. The birds 
hopped leisurely about, picking up a 
seed here and there ; there was no 
excitement or hurry in their manner. 
Evidently no nest-building was in 
progress ; rather there was a sugges- 
tion of farewell in their movements, 
as if they only tarried until these few 
perfect days should be over, to take 
their flight before the coming winter. 
Indeed, farewell was the keynote 



102 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Upon which the manifold harmonies 
of the day were played. Myriads of 
leaves were, moment by moment, 
detaching themselves from the 
branches to which they had been 
wedded all the long bright summer 
days. They had danced merrily in 
the gaudy sunshine, and clung faith- 
fully in the storms. Now they loos- 
ened themselves and floated slowly, 
slowly and silently down, lingering in 
midair, filling the day with ineffable 
splendor. Everywhere the mellow 
October sunshine flooded earth and 
sky with the glory of a benediction. 
It was as if summer, already parted, 
turned once more to look with love 
upon her erstwhile home, to ask par- 
don for past pain, to recall lingeringly 
past joys, and to breathe tenderly, 
“ Farewell.” 

“ Farewell, farewell, a word which hath been 
and must be, 

A word which makes us linger, yet farewell.” 

It was high noon, and the horses’ 
feet scattered the leaves to right and 
left as carriage after carriage drew 
up in front of the Blethen mansion 


WHITWELL V. R. BLETHEN. IO3 


and deposited at the door its burden 
of well-dressed men and women. 
They entered from the golden glory 
without, and for a moment the in- 
terior seemed lost in gloom ; then, 
as their eyes became accustomed to 
the subdued light, they saw the long 
parlors arranged with seats on each 
side, leaving a broad aisle in the 
center, which led to a dais, slightly 
raised from the floor. On the front 
of the dais stood a small table, upon 
which was a silver bowl wreathed in 
maidenhair fern. Behind the dais 
was a semicircle of palms ; every- 
where the walls were hung with 
smilax, and shaded by the green 
wreaths were rose-colored lights, 
which filled the rooms with soft radi- 
ance, while from somewhere behind 
the palms came a faint odor of burn- 
ing incense. 

A little to one side of the dais 
stood a beautiful chair, upholstered 
in pale golden brocade. 

The guests seated themselves, in- 
dulging in expectant whisperings, 
while they noted the details of the 
preparations. The invitations to 


104 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


which they were responding had read 
as follows : 

Mr. and Mrs. P. Van Ruger Blethen 
Request the Honor of Your Presence at the 
Christening 
Of their son, 

Whitwell Van Ruger Blethen, 
October lo, i8 — . 

Softly, as if heard from a distance, 
came the sound of music, a piano 
and strings ; then a door opened, 
and a sweet, high soprano voice, a 
child’s voice, began to sing : 

“And they brought young children to 
him that he should bless them. 

“ And his disciples rebuked those that 
brought them. 

“ But when Jesus saw it he was much dis- 
pleased, and said unto them : 

“ Suffer little children to come unto me, 
and forbid them not ; for such is the king- 
dom of heaven.” 

Suddenly a whole choir of voices 
joined : 

“ Glory be to the Father and to the Son 
and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the 
beginning, is now and ever shall be ! World 
without end. Amen.” 


WHITWELL V. R. BLETHEN. 105 


Now the sounds came nearer, as 
the procession passed slowly through 
the hall. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Saviour, who thy flock art feeding, 
With the shepherd’s kindest care, 

All the feeble gently leading. 

While the lambs thy bosom share ; 

Now this little one receiving, 

Fold him in thy gracious arm ; 

There, we know, thy word believing, 
Only there secure from harm.^ ” 

Into the parlor and down the aisle 
came the boy choir of the church of 
St. Mary the Virgin. They walked 
two by two, each carrying in his 
outer hand a tall stem of St. Joseph 
lilies. The sweet treble of their 
childish voices thrilled the air with 
indiscribable tenderness and pathos. 

“ ‘ Never from thy pasture roving, 

Let him be the lion’s prey ; 

I.et thy tenderness, so loving. 

Keep him all life’s dangerous way. 

Then within the fold eternal. 

Let him find a resting-place ; 

Feed in pastures ever vernal. 

Drink the rivers of thy grace.’” 

When the boys stood in front of 
the palms, their snowy robes against 


I06 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


the dark green, the lilies held high 
above their heads, they seemed an 
angel choir, welcoming the newly 
born infant to the heavenly kingdom. 

Following them came the rector ; 
then Nancy, in a black silk dress and 
long apron of sheerest lawn, bore in 
her arms the tiny being in whose 
honor the fite was celebrated. 
Next, Mrs. Whitwell, who was to be 
godmother, leaned on the arm of the 
happy father ; and M. Jean Sievert, 
the godfather, brought up the rear. 

When all was ready for the solemn 
vows, Claire was seen seated in the 
golden chair, beside the dais. Her 
fluffy golden hair rested against the 
paler brocade ; the rich folds of her 
gown wrapped her in an Oriental 
splendor. Her eyes were cast down, 
and her clear, pale face seemed as if 
it might have been carved out of 
ivory. It was a marvelous picture, 
gold upon gold, pale, rich, and rare. 
Like a sign and seal, upon her white 
throat blazed the blood-red ruby. 

As the ceremony proceeded she 
looked up, and, apparently oblivious 
of what was passing, let her gaze 


WHITWELL V. R. BLETHEN. I07 


wander from one to another of her 
guests. If it had chanced that any 
among them had had eyes to see, 
what revelations they might have 
found in her grave, melancholy 
eyes. 

The clergyman raised his hand, and 
all rose to receive the benediction. 
The well-instructed Nancy, who had 
already taken the child, led the pro- 
cession from the room. She was fol- 
lowed by the children, who sang 
triumphantly, as they passed out : 

** ‘ Children of the Heavenly King, 

As we journey let us sing.’ ” 

Mrs. Whitwell took her place be- 
side Claire to receive their guests, 
and Van Ruger offered his arm to 
one of them and led the way to the 
breakfast room. 

The rector of St. Mary the Virgin 
prided himself upon the fact that he 
was never at a loss as to what he 
ought to do. He could be all things 
to all men. He was very High Church, 
and of course very exacting in the 
matter of externals, which he was 
fond of calling the “ signs of inward 


I08 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


grace.” The last dreamy strains of 
one of Chopin’s waltzes were slowly 
dying on the strings of the violins 
when, in obedience to the demands 
of duty, he rose to his feet. In his 
hand he held an exquisite goblet, in 
which the amber wine quivered like 
a spirit of unrest 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, 
‘‘ the most beautiful moments of life 
are in their very nature so intimate 
and so sacred that it is seldom possi- 
ble to share them with our friends. 
Therefore when, as on this most 
happy occasion, the innermost shrine 
of a home is opened, and we are per- 
mitted to draw near, we do so with 
joyful fear, wishing indeed to remove 
the shoes from our feet, which are 
standing on holy ground. Naturally, 
in viewing such a scene as the one 
which we have just witnessed, in such 
a home, made lovely and perfect by 
all that intelligence and ^wealth can 
bring to its service, our thoughts turn 
to the one who is always the central 
and essential part of home. I have 
searched in my storehouse of words 
for some name which should embody 


WHITWELL V. R. BLETHEN, 109 


in itself all her manifold manifesta- 
tions, but I have not found such a 
one. I therefore add to the time- 
honored toast the one word de- 
manded by this time. 

“ Some of us know how much more 
precious is the wife than can be the 
dearest sweetheart, and in our truest 
moments we all realize what ineffable 
glory and worship crowns the name 
of ‘ Mother,’ highest, dearest, and 
best in this ever blessed trinity of 
womanhood.” 

He raised his glass to his lips, say- 
ing, “ Sweethearts, Wives, and 
Mothers.” 

The men drank the toast standing, 
and Van Ruger returned thanks 
gracefully, in a manner which en- 
tirely satisfied Mrs. Whitwell. It is 
not possible to say more. 

The sun was disappearing when the 
guests began to make their adieux. 

” Oh, my dear Mrs. Whitwell, this 
has been quite the loveliest christen- 
ing that I ever saw. It was simply 
perfect in every detail ; and dear 
Claire is looking so well and so 
happy.” 


no 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


“ Yes, indeed. It almost makes 
one sick with envy to see the dear 
girl. She has everything — quite every- 
thing in the world. I should think she 
would feel like doing something to 
propitiate the evil genius, don’t you 
know ? I should be almost afraid to 
be so perfectly happy.” 

“ I was just thinking the same 
thing. It doesn’t seem quite right 
that one person should have every 
blessing — such a home and such a 
husband, and be so beautiful too. 
And now a lovely baby added to all 
the rest.” 

And so on and on until the last one 
was gone. 

Claire had endured the day with the 
heroism which is an absolutely neces- 
sary part of a society woman’s equip- 
ment, but the strain had been terri- 
ble, and her strength was almost gone 
when relief came. 

“ Will you drink this ? You are 
exhausted — you have eaten nothing.” 

Jean Sievert stood beside her, 
handing her a tiny glass of liqueur. 
She drank it, and handed the glass to 
him again. 


WHITWELL V. R. BLETHEN. Ill 


“ Thank you. It is most kind in 
you to drink it. It will do you 
good.” 

The words were nothing, but the 
tones and manner were much. She 
raised her eyes to his, and saw that 
he knew ; that he alone of all the 
vapid crowd understood that she was 
alone and desolate and wretched. 
He knew it and he cared ; not with 
pity, but with something akin to it, 
only more kind, more sweet. With a 
quick movement of her head she 
turned her eyes away from his, but she 
knew that she was alone no longer. 

Upstairs, in the sunny nursery, 
old Nancy had taken off and put 
away the costly finery that had 
served to decorate the fHe j the 
baby in its simple muslin slip lay on 
her lap. She sat near the window, 
and the level rays of the setting sun 
played softly and lovingly on the 
face and hands of the sleeping child. 
Some idea of the simplicity and 
bounty of God’s gifts passed through 
her mind. She bent over and whis- 
pered, The blessed Lord love ye 
and keep ye, my lamb.” 



CHAPTER XIII. 



ENDURING HARDNESS. 

^HILE all these events, so im- 
portant to her, were happen- 
ing in the East, away on the 
shore of the Pacific the days 
were bringing lessons of 
pain to Sara. At first she received 
notes and letters constantly from 
Robert. While he was on the way 
home each train that he passed took a 
message to his love. Then suddenly, 
as if the sun should go out in mid 
heavens, all ceased. For a day or 
two she waited without great impa- 
tience ; then there begin to grow in 
her heart a sense of coming trouble. 
She did not doubt Robert for an in- 
stant ; it would almost be more true 
to say that she did not trust him, 
because her love for him was so 
perfect, so all pervading, that there 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


II3 


was no room for anything but simple 
love. 

The days passed, and while she 
answered the anxious looks of her 
aunt and cousin with shadowy 
smiles, dark circles grew under her 
eyes and her step lost its lightness. 
Mrs. Towers watched her with a 
mother’s care, and sometimes there 
seemed to be more of tender pity in 
her regard than the case called for. 

One day Margaret came in from the 
post office and handed her mother a 
letter. Mrs. Towers rose instantly 
and went out of the room. Coming 
back in a moment she went to Sara, 
and, putting her hand quietly on the 
girl’s shoulder, stooped over and 
kissed her. 

^‘Be strong and brave now, dear,” 
she said. There is a letter for you 
in your own room.” 

Sara saw that her aunt’s eyes were 
wet, and she rose silently and went 
to her room. There she found 
Robert’s letter — a poor little letter, 
written in pencil, and telling its tale 
almost as plainly on the outside as 
in its contents. She opened and 


il4 ROBERT ATTERBURV. 


Stared at it. The words swam 
before her, and her heart throbbed 
so that she could not hold the paper 
.still. She shut her -eyes ; then, say- 
ing to herself, “ At any rate, it is his 
writing," she pressed it to her lips 
and read it through. 

As she -read, slowly she slipped 
from her chair down to the floor ; the 
veins in her throat began to swell, 
her breath to come hard and rasping 
through her teeth. “ It cannot be, it 
cannot ! " she moaned. Then sud- 
denly she sprang up, seized the letter 
and read it again. She walked 
rapidly up and down the room, the 
blood coming back to her lips and the 
light to her eyes, but no tears moist- 
ened them. “ He is not dead, not 
yet," she said. “ He shall not die ; I 
will save him." 

She sat down and began to write 
rapidly. 

Robert, my love, I am coming to you, at 
once. I shall start to-morrow, and when this 
reaches you I shall be almost there. It can- 
not be as bad as you think ; it cannot, and 
you cannot give me up. You said that noth- 
ing could now come to divide us and make 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


115 


two lives of our united life. You said so, 
darling, and I have taken it into my very soul. 
You cannot give me back my life ; it is yours, 
and I am strong, so strong ! I will give you 
my strength. I will give you my life ; I will 
cure you ; I can. Oh, Robert, do not die 
before I can come to save you. I am com- 
ing — 

She had written so far when there 
came a gentle tap at the door. Mrs. 
Towers opened it and entered. Sara 
looked up and met her aunt’s loving 
eyes. The strain relaxed ; she threw 
herself into the arms that were out- 
stretched toward her. 

“ Oh, auntie, he is ill ! he says he is 
dying ! ” 

She burst into a fearful sobbing and 
moaning. For a long time she wept 
unrestrainedly, Mrs. Towers thanking 
God that she could weep. By and 
by, when the first passion of her grief 
was hushed, she looked up implor- 
ingly to her aunt. 

“It is not so bad as he thinks ; he 
cannot be so very ill in so short a 
time, and people can always be cured 
at first. Don’t you think so ? Oh, 
auntie, tell me that you think Robert 
will not die ! ’’ 


ii6 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Mrs. Towers said everything to 
comfort her that she could think of. 

“ Were you writing when I came 
in ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes ; I was telling him that I will 
go to him at once. I will go to- 
morrow. You will help me, auntie ? ” 

Mrs. Towers drew the girl to her 
and held her close for few minutes, 
as if she found it difficult to reply. 

‘‘Sara, my dear child, I have tried 
to be a mother to you ever since you 
were a baby ; now if I should ask 
you to do a very hard thing for me, 
would you try ? ” 

Sara became suddenly very pale. 

“ Not to give up going to Robert ? 
You would not ask me to do that ?” 

“ No, not to give it up, but to wait 
for your father’s letter.” She hesi- 
tated for a moment, then added : “I 
even think it probable that he will 
come himself instead of writing, and 
I do not want you to be gone if he 
should come. It will only be for a 
little while, — a week or so, — and I beg 
you to wait, my darling.” 

Something solemn and strange in 
her aunt’s manner impressed Sara 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


II7 


with the importance of her request. 
She sat quite still, with compressed 
lips, restraining all expression of the 
conflict that raged within her. 

“ I will wait for the next steamer 
from Japan,” she finally said. “If 
he does not come and I do not get 
a letter by that steamer, you will 
not ask me to wait longer, because I 
cannot.” 

Mrs. Towers consented to this 
arrangement, and from her heart she 
prayed that Sara's father would come. 

Sara spent the days that followed 
in writing to Robert. She wrote 
long letters, trying to cheer him and 
to take from his mind the fatal hope- 
lessness that she found in his letter. 

The summer visitors had almost all 
gone from Santa Cruz. The beach 
was deserted ; the heavy fogs of 
autumn rolled in and shut out the 
water, making the whole scene one 
hopeless gray. The dreariness suited 
Sara’s moods. Each day, when she 
had written her letter to Robert, she 
went out and walked-for hours on the 
wet sand or along the cliffs which 
Stretched to the north. When the 


Il8 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


afternoon light faded she came in, 
and, going straight to her own room, 
went at once to bed. She could not 
endure the presence of even her aunt 
and cousin. Usually she slept a little 
while, from sheer exhaustion, then 
woke. “ Her heart made moan, be- 
fore she was well awake.” Then for 
the long hours of the night she sat up, 
listening, watching, praying in all the 
ungovernable agony of youth. Some- 
times her aunt, coming softly to her 
door, heard choking sobs, half 
smothered in the pillow. Slipping 
into the room Mrs. Towers would lie 
down beside the girl, and, drawing 
the restless head to her own breast, 
would try with fond words and tender 
kisses to comfort her. 

One day Sara sat alone on the 
beach. Not even a fisherman was in 
sight. Around her the fog folded 
close ; in front of her was a little 
stretch of sand, and from out the 
thick vapor, in constant succession, 
huge dark masses of water rose and 
came suddenly into sight. Piling 
themselves higher and higher into 
mountains of indistinct green, they 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


II9 

rushed forward and broke in foam at 
her feet. For hours she watched 
these mysterious rollers of the great 
ocean dash themselves to pieces on 
the sand. They fascinated her, they 
seemed symbolical of life in its sud- 
den uplifting and its terrible over- 
throw. She lost the hope that had 
sustained her. It seemed to be borne 
in upon her mind that Robert would 
die. With this despair came the fear 
that she would be too late to see him, 
that perhaps it was already too late. 

Moved by a sudden impulse she rose 
and went down to the post office. She 
said to herself, “ If the letter has not 
come to-day, I cannot wait.” She 
seemed to know that it had come, 
and took quite as a matter of course 
the package bearing the J apanese post- 
mark which the postmaster handed 
her. She walked rapidly back to 
the cottage. She had no concern as 
to the contents of the package, did 
not even wonder why it was in this 
shape instead of being a letter. The 
only thought in her mind was that 
now she would go to Robert. 

Entering her room she threw her 


120 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


hat and gossamer upon a chair, then 
lit the candles on her dressing table, 
and sat down. Her heavy hair was 
damp with the fog ; she pushed it 
back from her face and leaned for a 
moment on her elbows, looking at 
her own face in the glass. It was 
pale and sad, but she smiled at it. 
“ To-morrow we will start,” she said. 

Then she untied the package. 
There were several wrappers, and at 
last a small tin box, carefully tied 
and sealed. She opened it, and 
found lying on the top a letter in 
her father’s handwriting. Beneath 
it was something wrapped in many 
folds of tissue paper. Unrolling this, 
she found a small miniature. She 
started when she first saw it, almost 
thinking that it was a picture of her- 
self. Looking more closely at it she 
discovered subtle differences, and 
realized that it must be her dead 
mother’s portrait. 

It was a sweet young face smiling 
at her ; a dear, loving, and lovable 
face. She had always been told that 
her mother had been beautiful, but 
her aunt had no picture of her, and 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


12 I 


until now Sara had never seen one. 
Now she gazed at tliis, and her 
thought was that her father had sent 
it to her as a betrothal gift. It was 
as if he had said, “Your mother 
would have wished to send you some 
token now ; ” and for the first time 
in her life she had a strong realiza- 
tion of her mother as something real 
to herself. Her heart went out in 
love for the young mother who had 
died so long ago, and she wondered 
if in her distant home she knew and 
pitied the agony and suffering of her 
child. She kissed the picture ; then, 
with the instinct which lives in us all, 
she whispered, “ Dear mother, if you 
can, help Robert to get well.” She 
laid it down where she could see the 
face ; then opened her father’s letter. 

My child, the hour has come ; the cup 
which I have prayed to be spared is pressed 
to my lips, and I must drink it. It is my 
Gethsemane : but below and beyond my 
own pain is the more terrible question, what 
will it be to you ? I do not know you. I 
have tried to make you strong. Are you so ? 
I have tried that you should be self-reliant 
and brave. God grant that you are ! I have 
also hoped against hope that your life would 


122 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


be absorbed in art or science or work of some 
kind, and that this day might never come. 
It had seemed to me that fate might be pro- 
pitiated by the sacrifice of my whole life, and 
might spare yours. But it has come, and 
now, daughter, I bid you bring every strength 
of mind and body to your aid, and bear the 
burden which life lays upon you. 

I send you your mother’s portrait. It has 
lain on my heart for more than twenty years, 
and I send it to you because the time has 
come when you must hear her story and mine, 
which is also yours. 

She was twenty years old when I first saw 
and loved her ; for I loved her from the 
instant that I saw her. I wooed and won her, 
and in six months I was her blessed husband. 

• There are no words to tell how blessed we 
were, for she also loved as I did. We went 
abroad, not so much to see what there was in 
foreign countries, but that being among 
strangers we might be more alone together. 
For one year life was perfect ; then, for there 
was promise of a new life coming to ours, we 
went slowly back to our home in Oakland. 

Her joy in her new hopes was great, and I 
shared it because it was hers. I had not felt 
the need of children ; my happiness was com- 
plete in her. About three months before 
her confinement there came a sudden change 
in her. She grew melancholy, then morbid, 
and I could not hide from myself the nature 
of her malady. I consulted the best special- 
ists on nervous disorders. They said these 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


123 


symptoms were not unusual, and not especially 
alarming under the existing circumstances, and 
bade me hope that all would be well. We at- 
tended her with unceasing care and devotion, 
but she grew worse, and finally, to my un- 
speakable grief, she showed such excitement 
and fear on seeing me that the doctor forbade 
me to go into her room. At night I waited 
until the nurse came to tell me that she slept, 
then went and sat beside her bed and watched 
her beloved form. 

One thing, above all others, roused in her 
either terror or anger. If she found any- 
thing that had been prepared for the child 
she had expected with' so much joy, she in- 
stantly destroyed it. Matters stood in this 
way when the day, longed-for and dreaded, 
came, and you were born. 

Can 'you, now that you are a woman, put 
yourself in my place, and realize with what 
agony I prayed that she might be given back 
to me well, or have rest in death ? 

She lived, and from day to day the doctor 
put me off. “Not yet” — eternally “Not 
yet.” ‘He said I must have “patience.” 
One day, I sat in my own room, the door 
open, sadly watching the door of her room. 
The nurse passed out, stopping a moment to 
tell me that her patient was asleep. I still 
sat there, my eyes fixed on the door, when I 
heard a stealthy step within the room. In- 
stantly I opened the door. She stood, in her 
long white gown, in front of the fire. She 
was laughing horribly. A smell of burning 


124 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


wool filled the air. I glanced at the crib ; it 
' was empty ; then at the fire, and, rushing 
forward, I seized the blanket in which you 
were rolled and snatched you from it. I had 
only time to throw you into the crib — unhurt, 
thank God ! — when, with a shriek which rang 
in my ears for many years, she sprang upon 
me. Before the nurse returned and help 
could be gotten, I had received an injury 
which deprived me of one eye and left me 
disfigured for life. 

You were at once sent to your aunt, in 
whose house you have since then found 
your home. After many efforts to have my 
darling rightly cared for at home, I was 
driven to take her to the Napa asylum. The 
doctor there asked me if this malady was in 
her blood — if others of her family had been 
insane. I did not know, and I am sur« that 
she had never known. When I had made 
inquiries, the facts confirmed our worst fears. 
The doctors pronounced her incurable. 

Still I hoped, and I spent the next two 
years in Napa, near the asylum, waiting, 
waiting, and hoping that some day she would 
open her sweet eyes and know me. Even 
this was denied me ; only when the end was 
coming, and she grew very weak, they let 
let me go and sit beside her. She did not 
know me, but it was my hand that gave her 
food and drink and closed her eyes at last. 

Then I turned my back on my country, 
and hid myself and my misery from all who 
had known me. 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


125 


For you, my one care was that you should 
grow up healthy in mind and body ; and, as 
you know, I hoped that you would never 
wish to marry. You will understand now 
that marriage for you would be a crime, and 
by the memory of your unhappy mother, and 
equally unhappy father, / fo7-bid you to think 
of it. 

Do not give way to despair. If I seem to 
have written coldly, do not think that I feel 
coldly. I write the plain facts, for they 
cannot be made other than they are ; but 
now, dearest child, you know why I have 
lived a stranger to you and to my own coun- 
try. I have longed for you, but I hoped that 
you need never know the tragedy of your 
birth, and so I have stifled that longing. 
Now, will you come to me ? Dearest child 
of my love, will you come and let my hungry 
.. eye see again one of my own ? Or shall I 
come to you ? At one word from you I will 
hasten, only it seems to me better that you 
should come to me. Come, weep your tears 
in my arms, and find some balm for your 
pain in bringing comfort to your devoted, 
loving father. 

Sara’s teeth chattered as with 
great cold while she read. When she 
had reached the end of the letter she 
sat quite still, bending forward a 
little and shaking. Her whole world 
had gone from her and left her alone, 


126 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


without support. She was powerless 
to move. Slowly a strong and terri- 
ble feeling came over her — a feeling 
that she had always known this thing, 
that all through her gay and thought- 
less childhood she had been well 
aware of this ghastly enemy waiting 
somewhere beside her path. It did 
not enter into her mind to rouse her- 
self and give him battle. After a 
little she spoke aloud. 

“ I am glad that Robert is dying,” 
she said. 

The sound of her own voice fright- 
ened her. She glanced stealthily 
around, then up at the glass before 
her. Great God ! What was this 
creature staring at her ! For a mo- 
ment she thought it was her mother, 
escaped from the asylum and come 
to claim her ; then she saw that it 
was the reflection of her own wild 
eyes and haggard face. “No, no,” 
she said. “ Not yet, not yet.” 

She moved away so that she could 
not see the glass, and sat still again, 
thinking. Then she put her hand 
upon the miniature, and, without look- 
ing at it, rolled it up in the papers 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


127 


again. She folded the letter and 
wrote on the last page, “ You were 
right to give me up, Robert.” Then 
she put them both into an envelope 
and addressed it to Robert. She 
blew the candles out, moved softly 
across the room, and stole out into 
the foggy night. She put nothing 
around her, and did not notice that 
the fog was like rain. At the door 
of the hotel was a post box into 
which she put the package ; then 
she hurried on. 

The streets were deserted ; no one 
saw her, and her aunt and cousin, 
not knowing that she had received 
the letter, thought her resting, and 
did not go to her room. She did not 
pause for an instant, but went over 
the bridge around to the cliff road, 
and on to the lighthouse. As she 
passed the lime wharf she wrung 
her hands and moaned, but did not 
stop. 

At the point where the bay meets 
the ocean, the high cliff turns almost 
at a right angle. Sometimes, at this 
spot, the waves roll up in mighty 
breakers and dash themselves into 


128 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


the air in clouds of spray ; then rush 
out again, swirling round and round 
in a vortex which the strongest 
swimmer could not withstand for an 
instant. At other times the rollers 
take another direction, and coming 
in straight from the ocean, sweep 
along at right angles to the shore. 
Then they follow each other in foam- 
crested waves. 

The tide was running in, and was 
almost at the full when Sara reached 
the point at the extreme limit of the 
bay. She did not hesitate ; her 
mind was made up. She was con- 
scious only of a terrible pain in her 
head, and of the imperative necessity 
of doing this thing before she lost 
the self-control that enabled her to 
accomplish it. She walked straight 
to the point, and holding her hands 
high to heaven, threw herself off. 

As she fell, a great mass of water 
passed solemnly on its irresistible 
way into the bay. It caught her, 
and, folding itself around her, bore 
her onward. The sharp shock of 
the cold water woke her as from a 
dream. In the flash of a lightning 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


129 


Stroke she came to herself. She 
realized what she had done ; all the 
cruelty to Robert, all the despair 
and disappointment of her father 
surged through her brain. She 
understood the cowardice and shame 
of her act. She was too good a 
swimmer, too superbly well and 
strong, to drown in any ordinary 
water, and before she had time to 
thinks she was swimming steadily. 

It was a long way to any safe land- 
ing place, and when reason had 
come to the aid of instinct she saved 
herself by resting at times on the 
water, then swimming slowly with 
the tide. Her light summer gown 
troubled her little, and by and by 
she saw the long, dark wharf in 
front of her. She felt her way to 
the fisherman’s stairs, and, climbing 
up, soon stood beside the same coil 
of ropes on which Robert had sat to 
watch the sunrise. She fell down 
upon it and wept long and bitterly ; 
yet she thanked God that she had 
not succeeded in killing herself. It 
seemed to her now that nothing 
which could come to her could be so 


130 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


terrible as this which she had almost 
accomplished, and which she knew, 
if she had accomplished it, would 
have filled Robert’s few last days 
with pain and suffering. Then she 
remembered her father, his long 
years of exile and loneliness, and 
groaned to think how nearly she had 
made of no avail all his teaching and 
his self-sacrifice. “ Be strong, be 
well.” How often he had written 
these words to her, and at the first 
need for them she had thrown them 
to the winds ! 

She rose at last and went home. 
She was broken-hearted, but she 
knew what she had to do, and she 
was strong and well. She went in 
and slipped her wet clothes off ; 
then, wrapping herself in a warm 
gown, she sat down and gazed 
calmly and steadily at herself in 
the glass. The great melancholy 
eyes looked patiently and bravely at 
her. 

‘‘We cannot go to Robert,” she 
said, ‘‘ but we will go to father and 
try to comfort him, and ” — she bent 
a little forward, still looking steadily 


ENDURING HARDNESS. 


131 


into the watching eyes — “and we 
will never, never let go the reins 
again.” 

There was faithful promise in the 
strong, self-reliant face. 




CHAPTER XIV. 


DEPTHS. 



7BOVE, a dome of blue 
r darkening toward the 
\ zenith ; all around a 
( heaving plain of gray- 
^ green waters ; at the far 


south a few downy clouds piled up 
into the semblance of mountains. 
The solitude is absolute. Here is 
no stretch of shore with headland 
and beach to put a bound to the 
measureless march of the waves. 
They are utterly unrestrained. Here 
no mountain clasps hand with 
mountain to say to the winds, 
“Turn back.” They meet with 
no opposition. 

So it is that in this vast play- 
ground the forces of nature some- 
times seem to grow sluggish, as if 
they found nothing worthy of their 


DEPTHS. 


133 


efforts. The great calm swells 
follow one another in monoto- 
nous succession. The playful winds 
ruffle the surface of the waves, then 
fly away to fan' the fleecy clouds 
into shreds and streamers. 

This ocean knows nothing of the 
land, but sometimes, from far away, 
where the great continent gasps 
under the throbbing sun, there blows 
a fierce, hot wind. The sea feels its 
coming and mutters sullenly ; then, 
as if refusing to receive even a mes- 
sage from the land, it gathers itself 
together and wages war against it. 
Then is heard the roar of deep call- 
ing unto deep, mingled with the 
shrieks of the wind warriors. But 
whether in sleepy peacefulness or in 
wild warfare, there is nothing here 
but the elements of air and water. 
Man has not placed his brand upon 
the vast plain ; no smoke from giant 
chimneys blackens its shining sur- 
face with the signs of toil ; no sewers 
vomit the refuse of cities into its 
uncontaminated depths. It laughs 
and frowns, plays idly with the sum- 
mer wind, and dashes its foam to 


134 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


heaven when its waves meet in anger, 
all unconscious of man and his 
world ; of palaces and fetid prisons ; 
of hot, dark forges where, amid the 
roar of mighty furnaces, the stubborn 
iron gives up its will and stretches 
itself out in long serpents of fire, 
obedient to its master ; of crowded 
workshops where men, women, and 
little children spend all their days in 
labor which gives them only daily 
bread and strength to toil again. 

No knowledge has this wild sea 
of darkling forest shades, of murmur- 
ing pebbly brooks that all night long 
sing quiet tunes : no faintest im- 
agination of wood-anemones and 
violets, of orange groves and clus- 
ter of red, red roses. 

One would say this part of the 
world had nothing to do with that — 
that smoky, toiling, greedy world, so 
full of care and wrong and pain — this 
free, irresponsible waste of air and 
water. Yet the earth is a little 
globe. The morning sun tinges this 
lonely horizon and wakes to laughter 
these foam-crested waves before the 
last light of day has faded in the 


DEPTHS. 


135 


west, to the world-weary eyes that 
have forgotten how to joy in its 
brightness. Who can know that the 
quiet, resistless march of ages will 
not bring these ends of the earth 
together ? 

Down in these depths, undisturbed 
by any commotion on the surface, 
myriads of tiny creatures are toiling. 
Slowly but surely they build walls, 
which in time will be reefs, will be 
islands, will grow through countless 
years into continents whose snowy 
mountain tops will gather the mois- 
ture from the air and send soft rains 
to refresh its smiling valleys ; whose 
spreading forests will creep down to 
the shores of sweet inland seas. By 
and by, where now these green waves 
roll, every sound of life and joy and 
love will resound. 

Out in that other world, the world 
of men, are also many laborers. 
They have brave hearts and ready 
hands. In the dark places of the 
great cities, in the cruel, blood- 
stained countries of man’s earth, 
man the deliverer is reaching out to 
his brother men. Across chasms 


136 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


rent by years of wrong and oppres- 
sion, hand clasps hand ; the poor 
are learning the griefs and sorrows 
of the rich, and have compassion ; 
the rich are learning the nobility of 
the poor, and have respect ; and in 
all lands men are coming to know 
themselves, and the inherent, abso- 
lute laws that control their being. 
Here and there are those who live 
according to those laws, actually 
and truly according to them and by 
them ; and in these rare and possibly 
isolated places, there is growing up 
a race which will inherit the earth. 

We cannot know when it will be, 
but just as surely as the reef, upon 
which the coral insect builds, will 
appear above the surface of the 
water, so surely that emancipated 
race will come. 

It will be, in its freedom, akin to 
the waves ; in its truth and majesty 
akin to the heavens ; and it may be 
that on the unpolluted soil of that 
new continent there will at last be 
true human happiness. 

It was March, and the day was 


DEPTHS. • 


137 


pleasantly warm and balmy. Over 
the quiet southern sea the barkentine 
Santa Mariana glided leisurely along. 
The breeze was merry and gay ; it 
sang little songs in the rigging, and 
made rippling laughs along the tops 
of the solemn swells. 

Robert and Dr. Richards sat under 
an awning which the doctor had 
rigged up for them — Robert reading, 
the doctor hard at work on a knotty 
chess problem. The days had passed 
into weeks and months since they had 
left Panama, on the Mariana^ bound 
indefinitely for a cruise among the 
South Sea Islands, and then for 
Sydney. Dr. Richards had con- 
sidered that they were fortunate to 
have found the barkentine, because 
she was new and seaworthy, had a 
hearty, wholesome captain, and was 
bound to be for some months in a 
climate that would do much for his 
patient. Besides themselves, the 
only passengers were a missionary’s 
wife and daughter. They were re- 
turning to their island home from a 
visit to their relatives in England. 

As Robert changed by slow de- 


138 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


grees from a sick man to one who 
was convalescent and only delicate, 
the two young men had naturally 
fallen into the relation of fellow- 
travelers rather than that of doctor 
and patient. They used all of their 
resources to make the long, monoto- 
nous days agreeable ; played endless 
games of chess, and talked still more 
endlessly. They were well matched 
in intellect, each ready to find the 
truth, and also ready to follow wher- 
ever it should lead when found. 
They were well matched in chess, of 
’which both were fond, and victory 
perched now on one side, now on the 
other. The last game had resulted 
in checkmate for the doctor, and he 
had arranged the board again as it 
had been before the last few moves, 
and was going over and over the 
fatal ending, his eyes intent and 
brow knitted. 

Forward, in the west, the sun was 
settling toward the horizon, and the 
lights began to pour their colors 
over the sea and sky as they have no 
power to do on a broken landscape. 
Robert went aft and leaned over the 


DEPTHS. 


139 


side of the ship, watching them at 
their work. Presently he drew him- 
self up and filled his lungs with the 
warm, salt air. The unchanging life 
of these days had silenced his self- 
consciousness. A man must be with 
other men, and obliged to make con- 
stant comparisons, in order to keep 
an active sense of his own condition. 
Now, as Robert stood with his shoul- 
ders back, drinking delicious drafts 
of the balmy, life giving air, it sud- 
denly came to him that he was much 
better and stronger than he had ever 
thought to be again. He examined 
himself critically for a moment, and 
as he did so he remembered how a 
few months before he had been 
brought onto the steamer a dying 
man. Simultaneously with this 
memory came a thought of a fellow- 
passenger on the steamer : a woman 
whom he had noticed because she 
also had been brought on board in an 
invalid’s chair. He had not thought 
at the time that he noticed her par- 
ticularly, but now he recalled her 
face perfectly. He walked back to 
the awning where the doctor sat, 


140 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


“ John, do you remember the 
woman who was brought on board 
the steamer almost at the same time 
that I was ? ” 

“ Yes • I remember her very well. 

I was called in to see her several 
times on the way down. She was 
going to her home in San Francisco.” 

Robert looked thoughtfully at 
John for a minute. 

“ Did she have consumption ?” he 
asked. 

“ No ; at least, not pulmonary con- 
sumption. She is the victim of one of 
the unanswered problems of modern 
society — or rather of one of the wrong 
answers ; a kind of martyr to what 
I call a false morality. I do not 
know what you would call it.” 

“ What is the problem, and what 
was this answer ? ” 

“ The problem is one which con- 
fronts most young married men and 
women in the present time, and can 
be stated in this way : A and B wish 
to marry. A’s business is sufficient 
to warrant him in the conclusion that 
he can support himself and wife in 
comfort. They marry. At the end 


DEPTHS. 


I4I 


of the first year C is born. The 
sickness and other expenses attend- 
ant upon his arrival have made large 
calls upon A’s surplus funds ; still, 
he can manage. In less than two 
years more, D puts in an appearance. 
There are more expenses, more sick- 
ness, and life begins to look very 
serious to A. [Robert recalled his 
talk with his old friend George 
Chester, on the train.] This goes on 
for a longer or shorter period, but 
anyone can see that the limit is soon 
reached. If B goes on having chil- 
dren, the time is not far distant when 
A cannot support them at all, to say 
nothing of supporting them in com- 
fort. The problem, then, which all 
those people have to meet is, * What 
is to be done about it ? ’ Some of 
them find one answer, some another, 
according as they are governed by 
superstition, knowledge, passion, or 
anything else." 

“ How do you mean ‘ by supersti- 
tion’ ?’’ Robert asked. 

“It is a most remarkable fact that 
the most religious people often adopt 
the methods which to the scientific 


142 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


mind are most absolutely wrong. 
For instance, this woman of whom 
you were just speaking. I had a very 
plain talk with her. I told her that 
she could not pursue the course which 
I found she had taken to prevent the 
growth of her family, and live any 
number of years. She was weak and 
hysterical, and cried, saying that all 
she wanted was to make her husband 
happy. As if a man could be happy 
living with a nervous, broken-down 
woman who cries half of the time ! ” 

Robert was determined to get to 
the bottom of John’s ideas. 

“ Did you help her to solve her 
problem ? ” he asked. 

The doctor shut the chessmen up 
in their box, stretched himself back 
in his chair, put his hands into his 
pockets, and looked straight into 
Robert’s eyes. 

“ Yes, I did. I gave her the only 
solution that I know of,” he answered. 

“ And that is ? ” 

“To keep herself well and strong, 
so that she could make a cheerful, 
comfortable home for her husband 
and children, and give her husband 


DEPTHS. 


143 


permission to satisfy the demands of 
nature elsewhere.” 

“ What did she say ? ” 

“ She was horrified. Said she was 
a Christian, and would not lead her 
husband into such deadly sin, to save 
her own life. She had no under- 
standing of the very evident fact that 
she had been committing crimes, and 
black ones too. Then she cried 
again and said that she wished that 
she was dead. Women are such 
fools, most of them ; then they are 
falsely educated too ! They cannot 
distinguish between the chivalrous 
devotion which a man feels for his 
wife, and the simple use which he 
may have for a woman of another 
order.” 

Robert’s brow was black, but he 
kept himself quiet. 

** What about the women of that 
other order ? ” he asked. “ If the 
wives are to save themselves in your 
way the others must be sacrificed. 
Is that a scientific solution ? ” 

“Yes; entirely so,” John an- 
swered. “ It is for the good of the 
race that the mothers should be 


144 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


taken care of, to the end that the 
children may constantly improve. 
As for the other women, I think, of 
course, much might be done to 
ameliorate their condition, if they 
were looked upon simply as a neces- 
sary portion of the community, and 
treated accordingly. They are not 
so badly off in many places. In 
Paris, for instance, they have gay, 
happy lives, and in Japan, at the 
Yoshiwara, they manage the thing 
perfectly. We are only half civil- 
ized,” he concluded. 

“It seems to me,” Robert said, 
after a pause, “ that your solution 
would use itself up in a very short 
time. Since the plea for it is that 
those other women do not have chil- 
dren, and so need not to be cared for, 
their ranks would soon have to be 
filled by the better and nobler chil- 
dren of the wives. How would you 
like that?” 

“ That is a question for the future. 
Science has nothing to do with that 
at present. What we have to do is 
to study human nature as we find it, 


BEPTHS. 


145 


and discover from itself the laws 
which govern it.” 

“ Human nature as we find it is 
not natural, but fallen,” said Robert. 

John laughed. 

“ That is a theological term which 
we do not know.” 

Robert got up and began to walk up 
and down the deck. His loyal love 
for his human brothers and sisters 
forbade him to look upon the one as 
the hopeless slave of his own passions, 
and the other, whether as wife or 
mistress, merely the minister to those 
passions. Yet he could not deny to 
himself that the whole world seemed 
to groan under the misery of the ex- 
isting relation between man and 
woman, and he was fast coming to 
the conclusion that real prostitution 
is a very large element in most mar- 
riages. His love for Sara had lifted 
him up into a higher and nobler 
world than the one of sense. He 
worshiped her with his soul far more 
than with his body, and her body 
was to him sacred to the glorious end 
for which it had been created. It 


146 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


was for this reason that he had with 
firm hand put away from himself the 
temptation to let her come to him, to 
have for the short life remaining to 
him the blessedness of her compan- 
ionship. He knew that marriage 
with him would rob her children of 
their birthright — the right to be born 
well and strong. So he had doomed 
himself to loneliness. 

Now as he paced the deck a terri- 
ble depression was upon him. He 
thought of George Chester’s worn 
face, which spoke of vanished ambi- 
tions and wearying cares ; of Claire 
Blethen’s almost mad invectives 
against fate, and of John's philoso- 
phy, which seemed to him to mock 
the whole world’s woe. The doctor 
had said : ** We must discover from 
human nature itself the laws which 
govern it.” This brought to Robert’s 
mind the words which had once be- 
fore occurred to him in the same 
connection — “Blessed is the man 
whose delight is in the law of the 
Lord.” 

He paused beside the railing and 
looked out over the sea. 


DEPTHS. 


147 


“ What is the law of the Lord 
about this matter ? ” he asked. 

On the edge of the horizon the last 
red arc of the sun was resting. It 
sank slowly into the water, and in 
the deep night blue of the sky the 
stars shone out suddenly. Down in 
the cabin the missionary’s daughter 
was singing : 

“ ‘ Angels of Jesus, angels of light, 

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the 
night.’ ” 

The doctor called to him to come 
in out of the night air, and he went 
down, saying to himself, “We are 
indeed, ‘ pilgrims of the night,’ but 
the light must be there, in the ‘ law of 
the Lord,’ if we can only find it.” 





CHAPTER XV. 



THE PROBLEM. 

|OHN won an easy victory 
at chess that night. Rob- 
ert’s mind was entirely ab- 
sorbed in the solution of 
the problem which he had 
set for himself, i. e.y to find the law 
of the Lord concerning the relation 
of man and woman. By the law of 
the Lord,” Robert meant the true in- 
herent law of man’s being, by obedi- 
ence to which he can and must attain 
to ideal, perfect manhood, and to 
happiness or blessedness. He retired 
early, not to sleep, but to be alone, in 
order to concentrate his attention 
upon the problem. 

Robert was a thoroughly intelli- 
gent man. He watched with interest 
every discovery made and verified in 
the scientific world, and had no fear 


THE PROBLEM 


149 


that any truth could overthrow his 
fundamental religious belief. He 
knew that truth added to truth will 
eventually bring the light of perfect 
day. He had studied the theory of 
evolution as expounded by Western 
scientists, and also from the more 
spiritual standpoint of the great 
Oriental teachers. It seemed to him 
that the latter were probably more 
correct in their first principles and in 
their processes, although outwardly 
the results were the same. He ac- 
cepted, as proven, the fact that man 
is the result of slow development, 
through many ages and many forms, 
from the first and lowest orders of 
life ; and he looked to the laws which 
have governed his evolution as prob- 
ably containing the law for his per- 
fecting. 

He asked himself. What is a truly 
natural man or woman ? 

He studied it in both ways, and 
found the answer the same. An 
ideal, natural man or woman is one 
in whom every power of soul and 
body is developed according to its 
own inherent law, and is used for the 


150 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


purpose for which it was created — the 
lower powers being dominated and 
controlled by the higher, according to 
their usefulness to the individual and 
their aid in the development of the 
race. This : whether by means of 
natural selection and environment, 
Life has struggled up from the un- 
thinking protoplasm to Man, who 
“ draws in the stars with his net ” ; or 
whether a spark from the Divine 
Soul, sent out on its mission of self- 
development, has shaped to its varied 
needs the bodies it required until it 
stands, clothed in the image of God, 
reaching out toward the Great Father 
and claiming its portion in his house. 

He drew before his mind this ideal 
man, and demanded. What qualities 
above all others must he have ? In- 
telligence, judgment, self-reliance, 
self-control. 

What, in noble perfection, must 
the ideal woman be ? Loving ; ten- 
der ; strong to endure and to uphold ; 
most of all, and more than all, sympa- 
thetic — in its best meaning : thorough 
understanding of the needs of others. 

Now, he asked. What is the true re- 


THE PROBLEM. 


151 


lation of this ideal man and woman ? 
In the broadest sense, it should be 
such that each individual man and 
woman should be able and ready to 
give of his best to all his brothers and 
sisters around him ; helping all with 
all that he is. In its most sacred 
and personal sense it undoubtedly is 
marriage. 

What, then, is true marriage ? 

True marriage is that state in 
which the relation between a man and 
woman is such that their natures be- 
come one ; each drawing from the 
other and giving to the other, so that 
in their united life they each have the 
benefit and use of all the best and 
noblest qualities of human nature. 

In this perfect union between the 
ideal man and woman, this joining of 
intimate understanding with tender 
sympathy, this merging of protecting 
strength and true devotion, until 
each is strong, each loving, what is 
the physical part ? 

Man’s body is his means of com- 
munication with the outside world 
and with other men and women. It is 
through physical powers that his soul 


152 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


finds expression. His eyes look the 
love and tenderness to which his 
tongue gives utterance ; the tones 
of his voice penetrate the heart of 
the one who loves him, giving a 
divine joy, and his whole longing for 
beauty is satisfied as he gazes on the 
face of his beloved. 

Finally Robert reached the last 
question. In the ultimate, physical 
relation of man and woman, what is 
the law of the Lord ? 

Evidently the fulfillment of the 
purpose for which it was ordained, 
for which alone it has served during 
all the struggle from protoplasm to 
man — the continuance of the race. 
Here alone, at man, begins the devia- 
tion from this universal law. Sud- 
denly, as if spoken in his mind, 
Robert heard these words : 

“Your body is the temple of the 
Holy Ghost.” 

What does this mean ? Surely it 
can only mean that within these 
bodies dwells the power and glory of 
the Living God, the Creator. 

He stopped here, astounded by the 
thoughts which pressed in upon him. 


THE PROBLEM. 


153 


He had been approaching this phys- 
ical question with the idea that here 
was one of the dom mating influences 
of man’s lower, sensual nature which 
was to be subdued and held in sub- 
mission by his nobler forces, and here, 
at the very threshold, it took itself at 
once from that position and stationed 
itself at the very summit of all human 
powers. It took up its abode in the 

Holy of holies,” in the presence of 
the great “ I am.” 

Slowly he came to realize fully 
what this means — that this relation 
between a man and a woman is for 
the purpose, sacredly and solely for 
the purpose, of bringing into the 
world a new being, a child not 
“ conceived in sin ” but in perfect 
holiness, not “ born in wickedness,” 
but born in strength and goodness, 
lord of the earth and heir of heaven. 
Robert almost held his breath while 
these wonderful thoughts swept 
through his mind. He seemed to 
realize a world, inhabited by a race 
so born, living according to this law, 
and his whole being thrilled with joy. 
He felt like singing aloud, “ Blessed 


154 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


is the man whose delight is in the 
law of the Lord ! ” 

From these glorious possibilities, 
it was with a sinking heart he found 
himself forced to contemplate the 
men and women which we really are. 
Our temple has been defiled, lust has 
driven love almost if not quite as 
much from the domestic hearth as 
from the brothel. Man is the slave 
of a hideous, abnormal appetite, 
which is no part of his original na- 
ture. 

Woman no longer stands beside 
him, his other self. She has lost her 
throne in his heart and bowed herself 
for all these ages under his feet. She 
has but one way to subdue this un- 
natural creature, which her own pros- 
titution has fostered, and it has be- 
come her very nature to cringe before 
him as before a master, and yet, by 
the display of her beauty, rouse in 
him desires which bring him, the 
slave of a moment, to her feet. 
As the warm summer rain blesses 
alike the tree and flower and the 
parched ground, so her tenderness 
and sympathy were meant to go out in 


THE PROBLEM. 


155 


blessing to every man and woman 
whom she could reach. Now, under 
the influence of this Serpent of Sensu- 
ality which rules the earth, it is with 
the utmost danger to herself and 
others that she uses her divinest right 
— the right to sympathize — so prob- 
able has it become that sympathy will 
lead to lust, and lust to sin. 

All this exists everywhere, in the 
lowest haunts of sin and shame, and 
under the thousand unrecognized 
wrongs of married life. Now, Robert 
saw that this condition of things is 
not one of the results of the Fall of 
Man, from obedience to law, but that 
in itself it constitutes the Fall. That 
the temple being thus overthrown and 
desecrated, all evil things have come 
to inhabit there and fill the whole 
place with their defiling. He felt 
that it was easy to trace to this one 
source all the crimes which have 
burdened our race with sin and suf- 
ering, all jealousy and hatred ; all 
envy and cringing deceitfulness. 

^ What is this love, which con- 
secrates marriage ? ” Posdnicheff, 
in the “Kreutzer Sonata,” asks. 


156 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Under the new light which illu- 
minated his mind, Robert was ready to 
say that there is no love which can jus- 
tify marriage as it is at present under- 
stood. There is no possible enact- 
ment of arbitrary law, no blessing 
of priest or church, which can render 
it anything but legalized prostitution. 
It is a crime against nature, against 
the race, against God. 

Robert’s heart was very heavy. He 
knew well that this view of the “ law ” 
was not likely to be accepted by many 
people ; yet the longer he thought of 
it the more plainly he saw that obedi- 
ence to it would bring the Kingdom 
of Heaven to reign upon earth. 

The morning had come, and he 
opened his cabin window. He had 
been thinking of the “ Kreutzer So- 
nata,” that terrible and grand arraign- 
ment of social and religious fallacies 
regarding marriage. Reaching out 
his hand, he took from the rack 
another book by the same wonderful 
writer, and read the concluding chap- 
ters, stopping now and then to apply 
the author’s words to the matter with 
which his mind was filled. 


THE PROBLEM, 


157 


“Error is the force which binds 
men together ; truth alone can set 
them free. Now truth is only truth 
when it is in action, and then only can 
it be transmitted from man to man.” 
“ And so the members of this church 
practice the commandments of Jesus, 
and thereby teach them to others. 
Whether this church be in numbers 
little or great, it is nevertheless the 
church that shall never perisli, the 
church that shall finally unite within 
its bonds the hearts of all mankind. . . 
Fear not, little flock, it is your Father’s 
good pleasure to give you the king- 
dom.” 

Robert laid the book down and 
closed his eyes. Again the refrain 
of the missionary hymn came to him : 

“ Angels of Jesus, angels of light, 

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the 
night.” 

A great joy filled his being. This 
new gospel of good tidings was given 
to him. He had a message of peace 
on earth and good will to men, and 
the last days of his life might be full 
of blessedness if he could bring some, 


158 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


even a very few, to the understanding 
of this Law of the Lord. 

He knew that one such family, liv- 
ing according to God's true ordinance, 
and bringing into the world children 
born of the holy sacrament of such a 
marriage, would assuredly work its 
leavening grace on all the human 
beings with whom it came in contact. 
It did not disturb him that he was so 
infinitely small compared with the 
immensity of the task to be performed. 
Like the tiny insect, under the deep 
ocean waves, he knew how to begin, 
and, unquestioning as to results, he 
set himself to do what he could. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

DR. RICHARDS DISAPPOINTED. 

EXT morning Robert rose 
late, having fallen asleep 
after the day had come. 
While he was dressing he 
was impressed with the 
feeling that something out of the 
ordinary was going on. The usual 
quiet of the ship was gone, and 
instead there was a thrill of ex- 
pectancy in the air. When he 
stepped out on deck he saw John 
with the captain and several others, 
examining something with the cap- 
tain's glass. He looked in the 
same direction as that in which the 
glass was pointed, and thought he 
could see something like a faint 
cloud resting on the horizon. 

“ What is it ? ” he asked. 

“ It is land,” John answered gayly. 



l6o ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


“ That is one of the Samoan Islands. 
It has been in sight from the mast- 
head since sunrise, and I have been 
up in the rigging looking at it. What 
in the world have you been doing 
with yourself ? ” he added, as, turning 
to look at Robert, he recognized his 
not very satisfactory appearance. 

The doctor insisted that they 
should go below at once. He made 
a thorough examination of Robert’s 
lungs and general condition. 

“ I do not understand why you 
look so badly this morning,” he said, 
when he had finished. 

“ I have not slept much,” Robert 
explained ; “ but I do not feel ill, only 
tired.” 

The doctor turned away, dissatis- 
fied. He had been both happy and 
proud in the steady improvement of 
his patient ; and being rather dra- 
matic in his temperament, he had 
planned a little scene which he in- 
tended to arrange on their arrival in 
Sydney, in which he, assuming for 
the moment Robert’s clerical manner, 
should say to him, The sins of thy 
body are forgiven ; go and sin no 


DR. RICHARDS DISAPPOINTED. l6l 


more.” To-day he did not feel so 
confident. 

Dr. Richards spent most of the 
day watching the barkentine’s grad- 
ual approach to the land. When 
afternoon was merging into evening, 
he went down into the cabin, where 
he found Robert seated, writing, 
while page upon page of manuscript 
lay on the table beside him. 

‘‘Hello! What is all this?” he 
exclaimed. 

“ It is my answer to your problem,” 
Robert said. “ I have found one 
which suits me better than yours 
does, and I am writing it all out. It 
is of no use for you to shake your 
head,” he continued, “because I 
must do it. Last night I found that 
there may be a good and perfect use 
for even the end of my broken life. 
I have made my plan.” He laid 
down his pen and held his hand out 
to the doctor. “ You have been very 
good to me, and now I am as well as 
I ever shall be, and have no right to 
keep you from those who need you. 
I shall miss you sadly, of course, but 
I am glad that since the time is near 


i 62 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


for you to go back to your work, 
there has come to me an absorbing 
occupation for the remainder of my 
life. I have a message for my 
brothers and sisters ; I cannot preach 
to them from a pulpit, but I will write 
it to them. It seems to me best that 
I should remain in Apia, and that 
you should take the first opportunity 
to go back to the world where you 
belong.” 

John had not arranged this, and 
was not pleased with the plan. 

“ How much writing is it your pur- 
pose to do ? ” he asked. 

“ I cannot tell,” Robert answered. 
“The subject grows with wonderful 
rapidity to my mind. I shall write 
in the form of sermons, that being 
rather a natural method for me to 
use. When I have something fin- 
ished, I will send it to my friend in 
Boston. He is an editor, you know, 
and a publisher as well. I will con- 
sult with him as to the best way of 
offering what I have to say to the 
public. Meanwhile, I will write as 
constantly as possible, to lose no 
time.” 


DR. RICHARDS DISAPPOINTED. 163 


“ May I inquire how long you ex- 
pect to live?” John asked. 

Robert looked at him with earnest, 
questioning eyes. 

“I don’t know. About how long 
do you think ?” 

“Well,” said the doctor, “you are 
about twenty-seven now, I believe. 
That leaves forty-three years before 
you will attain to the allotted three 
score and ten years of man ; and if 
by reason of any great tenacity of life 
you should hold out to four score, it 
will be fifty-three years. You are as 
likely to do it as anyone.” 

Seeing the emotion on Robert’s face, 
he made haste to change his tone. 

“Seriously, my dear fellow, there 
is nothing whatever the matter with 
you that need shorten your life. I 
do not say that you are a strong man, 
or will probably ever be strong. You 
are not. You will have to live in a 
good climate ; may have to change 
the climate occasionally ; you will 
have to obey the laws of health 
rigidly, but granting that you do these 
things your life is as secure as any- 
one’s. If I were examiner for a life 


164 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


insurance company, I would take you 
at the usual rates.” 

Robert had been perfectly motion- 
less while the doctor gave his opinion, 
but the storm which rose in his soul 
was terrible. What ? He was to 
live ! A long life, alone, away from 
her ! It was impossible. He could 
not face such misery. 

John had expected, at least, some 
expression of satisfaction on the part 
of his patient, and was amazed to 
see his .face grow stern and white. 
With trembling hands Robert gath- 
ered up his papers, and said, rising, 
“Excuse me, John”; then he went 
into his own room and closed the 
door. 

The Mariana lay at anchor in the 
harbor of Sydney. There was an un- 
mistakable sense of coming frost in 
the bright morning air. On the deck 
John and Robert were preparing to go 
ashore in a small boat. The latter 
had not carried out his plan of re- 
maining at Apia. He had not im- 
proved ; indeed, had not held his 
own, after the conversation just 


DR. RICHARDS DISAPPOINTED. 165 


recorded. A great restlessness had 
taken possession of him. The ties 
which bound him to life — not only to 
Sara, but to his mother, to Claire, 
and to all his friends — had asserted 
themselves, and he wanted to be in 
the civilized world again, where at 
least he would be in communication 
with them. 

From Panama John had sent word 
that all their letters should be for- 
warded to them at Sydney. Conse- 
quently they had not had a line from 
anyone since they had left home ; 
and now, as they waited for the boat 
to be gotten ready, it was not the 
strange city before them that occu- 
pied their thoughts, but the packages 
of letters awaiting them, and contain- 
ing — what ? 

An hour later they were sitting in 
a pleasant room in their hotel, each 
with a pile of letters and papers be- 
fore him. John was soon absorbed 
in his. Robert gathered quickly, 
from out the mass, those which were 
in the handwriting that was so dear 
to him. He arranged them in the 
order of their postmarks, and, begin- 


l66 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


ning with the earliest, read them 
through. While he read the pathetic 
yet courageous words written so many 
months before by his dear love, Life, 
the despot, took him in its grasp. It 
shook him from the lethargy which 
had been around him ; it wrung his 
heart with agony, and thrilled him 
with sweetest rapture and with direst 
pain. 

Finally he came to the letter con- 
taining the miniature. He gazed at 
the portrait with astonishment. He 
did not for an instant think that it 
was Sara ; he knew instinctively that 
it must be her mother. Then he 
opened the letter, Mr. Gardner’s 
letter, and read it through. 

Suddenly John was startled by the 
sound of Robert’s footsteps* He 
had risen, and without a word walked 
rapidly out of the room. Even after 
the door was shut, the sound of his 
steps going down the hall came back 
to John with an unaccustomed ring. 
They were firm steps, full of pur- 
pose ; strong, well steps. 

“ Hello ! ” he said aloud, “ I won- 
der what the deuce is to pay now.” 


DR. RICHARDS DISAPPOINTED. 167 


Robert stopped at the clerk’s desk. 

“ Can you tell me how soon a 
steamer leaves for Japan, and which 
route is the quickest and most 
direct ? ” 

The clerk consulted his time table 
and answered : 

“ The steamer for Hong Kong sails 
in an hour, but there will be another 
in three days. That will probably 
suit you better, as you have just 
arrived.'* 

“ I will take the one that sails to- 
day,” Robert replied. “ I am ready 
now.” 




CHAPTER XVII. 

LIFE. 

NG in Japan; spring 
lost ready to give place 
summer. Everywhere 
Vj fresh green, resting in 
I rising out from pale, 
hazy blue. The day was one of 
Spring’s triumphs. She seemed to 
stand on the northern hilltops and 
beckon gayly to Summer, saying, 
“See how beautiful I have made the 
earth to welcome you!” 

Sara and her father walked slowly 
along a road which, with many 
curves, and now and then a short 
flight of steps, went up one of the 
hills which rise above the harbor and 
town of Nagasaki. The Feast of the 
Cherry Blossoms was in full celebra- 
tion, and they had been for a long 
walk, to enjoy the enchanting beauty 



LIFE. 


169 


of the season, and to take what part 
they could in the general holiday. 
Everywhere under the great flower- 
laden trees were groups of merry 
people. Their light-hearted chatter- 
ing and soft laughter were as much 
in keeping with the day as were the 
songs of the birds and the busy flut- 
tering of the butterflies. 

Wherever Mr. Gardner and his 
daughter appeared, they were re- 
ceived with kindliest greeting. The 
dainty little people, their faces 
wreathed in smiles, their long eyes 
bright with pleasure, came forward 
to meet their guests, and with many 
compliments offered them cakes and 
tea. They knew Mr. Gardner well. 
He had lived among them many 
years, and they showed a respect for 
him which was almost reverence. 
He stopped for a little while wher- 
ever he recognized acquaintances, 
and talked to them in their own lan- 
guage, which was to him as his own. 

Sara as yet understood very little 
of the language, but she had grown 
quite accustomed to the outspoken 
admiration with which the pretty 


lyo ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


little Japanese girls gathered around 
her, touching now her bright hair, 
now some part of her dress which 
pleased them, and murmuring ''Ki- 
reno, ah kireno. ’ ’ 

Her father’s intercourse with the 
Japanese was a constant source of 
surprise to her. He associated with 
them just as he would have done if 
he had been Japanese or they Ameri- 
can. She had not yet gotten over 
the idea that they belonged to an 
altogether different, if very charm- 
ing, world from her own. 

The day was waning now, and 
she and her father had started for 
their home, which was well up on 
the hillside, and looked down over 
the feathery bamboo trees and away 
to the inland sea. One of the turns 
in the road brought them in sight of 
the water. A great ocean steamer 
was just off the wharf. It was sur- 
rounded by sampans, which were 
ready to land the passengers, if there 
chanced to be any. Mr. Gardner 
stood looking at the busy scene. 

“It is the steamer from China,” he 
said. “She has had a quick run.” 


LIFE. 


I71 

When they walked on, Sara put 
one hand through her father’s arm 
and clasped the other one around it. 
She looked up into his worn, dis- 
figured face, and, as always, the 
sight of it brought to her the full 
realization of his long years of self- 
repression and loneliness. A great 
tenderness for him filled her heart. 
She listened attentively while he 
talked of the day, and of other holi- 
days of this Eastern people. He 
constantly tried to awaken in her a 
real interest in the Japanese, and for 
his sake she tried to be interested. 
He was sure that if he could rouse 
her to an active study of their man- 
ners and habits, of their wonderful 
old art, in which he was deeply 
versed, of their calm and sweet 
religion, or indeed of anything else, 
it would at least soften the melan- 
choly which he could not help but 
see in her eyes. On her part, she 
met every request with ready acqui- 
escence, every anxious look with a 
smile, and imagined that she had 
deceived him into thinking her at 
least contented. 


172 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


When they reached home he went 
in at once, and started up the stairs 
that led to their sitting room. Seeing 
that she did not follow, he came back. 

“Are you coming up, daughter?” 
he asked. 

“Now just now, father dear,” she 
answered. 

She smiled at him, and he left her. 
Then she sat down on the edge of 
the porch, and let her eyes wander 
vaguely off toward the east. The 
light died out of her face, and a 
sadness so profound took its place, 
that all her youth fell from her, and 
she seemed like a statue of despair. 

Down at the wharf the passengers 
were landed and the steamer had 
already gone on her way. There 
were only a few passengers, and they 
were soon in the jinrikishas on their 
way to the hotels. As each trunk 
and valise had to have a separate 
’rikisha, there was quite a procession 
when the kurumaya runners started 
off at their accustomed trot. Pres- 
ently one of them left the line, and, 
slowing down, began to ascend the 
road which Sara and her father had 


LIFE. 


173 


just passed over. Whenever a curve 
in the road made Mr. Gardner's 
house visible, the kurumaya stopped 
and pointed upward. Just at one of 
these places was a flight of steps 
which perceptibly shortened the way. 
Robert called to his runner to stop, 
and, getting out of the 'rikisha, paid 
and dismissed him. Then he went 
up the steps. 

Something in his movements 
attracted Sara’s attention, and she 
looked down. Who and what was 
this ? She grew whiter, if she could 
be whiter than before, and a look of 
fright was added to the pain already 
in her face. Still he came on, not 
walking fast, but with a swinging 
step and evident impatience. Now 
he disappeared behind a clump of 
bamboo. She rose to her feet and 
clasped her hands tightly together. 
She thought she must be dreaming, 
or perhaps — and the great dread of 
her life took hold of her. Now he 
stepped out from the road ; he was 
only a few yards away. It was 
Robert, really Robert, with glad, 
happy eyes, coming toward her, hold- 


174 ROBERT ATTERBURV. 


ing out his hands. She put up one 
hand as if to ward something off, and 
stared at him wildly. 

“Robert! You here!” she whis- 
pered. 

He took her trembling hands in 
his, and held them fast. 

“Here?” he said. “Yes, my 
love. Did you not know that I 
should come? You did not think 
that I could be alive and not come to 
you? I am alive, thank God, and 
here to take care of you, and never, 
never to leave you again.” 

Her eyes were fixed on his with a 
look of passionate prayer, as if to say, 
“Do not deceive me; I have borne 
despair: I cannot bear false hope.” 
They drank courage from his stead- 
fast, tender gaze, but she only said: 

“I do not understand. You gave 
me up when you were ill and I did 
not know, and now ” 

Robert put his arm around her and 
drew her close to him. 

“I gave you up, dearest, when I 
thought that you were well, and that 
it would be wrong for me to marry 
you. Now, do you not see, darling. 


LIFE. 


175 


dearest one, that we are equal ; that 
your trouble brings us together again, 
and gives me the double right to be 
near you ; that you need me, and that 
there is no one else in the world who 
can comfort you?” 

They were sitting side by side on 
the edge of the low porch, and the 
shadows of night were falling around 
them. While Robert talked to her, 
telling her of his illness, his voyage, 
of finding her letters, and the haste 
he had made to reach her, a constant 
transformation went on in her. At 
last he knelt beside her and clasped 
his arms closely around her. 

‘T have come to you, my life, my 
love,” he said. ‘T will be husband 
and children to you, you shall be 
wife and children to me, and we will 
be together always, always^ for better 
for worse, for richer, for poorer, in 
sickness and in health, so long as we 
both shall live.” 

While he spoke, she bent down to 
his a radiant face, in which Love and 
Faith triumphed over Fate ; and when 
her lips met his, she repeated softly: 

“So long as we both shall live.” 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

“l SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” 

dawn of the next day 
was like a resurrection 
vOT morning to Sara. She 
rose to meet a new world 
and a new life. She went 
down and out into the clear spring 
morning, and there on the porch 
Robert was waiting for her. They 
looked into each other’s eyes, and 
the whole universe seemed to be 
clothed in gladness. Their under- 
standing of each other was so perfect 
that it was easy for Robert to show 
Sara the conclusions he had reached 
in his long pondering of the problems 
of life and marriage, and she accepted 
with joy and thankfulness the solution 
that left her Robert’s tender love and 
constant companionship. 

Mr. Gardner was inclined to be 


‘‘l SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” 177 

not only dissatisfied, but angry, when 
he first found who had come, and 
learned that he had come to stay. 
They talked the position over quietly 
and exhaustively. Robert explained 
his views, and found that Mr. Gard- 
ner was not inclined to accept the 
possibility of such a marriage as that 
which he proposed. 

“There need be no question of 
marriage,” Robert finally said. “I 
am not in a condition which would 
make it right that I should have 
children ; neither is Sara ; but we 
love each other. Is it a reason for 
sacrificing both our lives, that we 
cannot desire to have children? I 
make no appeal to you for myself, 
but I ask you candidly, does she not 
need me? Do you not already see 
that she is better, and is it not prob- 
able, with me to help her, that she 
will escape the trouble which you 
fear for her?” 

Mr. Gardner could not deny that 
this was true. He consented that 
Robert should stay for a short time. 

Robert and Sara smiled at this 
decision. They did not need that 


17^ ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


anyone else should understand them. 
They were one, and rested in their 
love. Their new life began at once. 
Robert found a little house, higher 
up on the hill, where he established 
himself. Each morning he came 
down to breakfast with Sara. He 
came in like the sun that rises above 
the sea, and Sara’s eyes filled with 
light and love as the earth fills with 
the day, Mr. Gardner was conscious 
that he too lived in a new world, 
and he soon grew accustomed to 
watch for the morning greeting which 
passed between the eyes of these 
lovers; and when he caught it he 
felt that a benediction had fallen 
upon him. 

Robert at once became intensely 
interested in Mr. Gardner’s Japanese 
lore, and at last it came to this long- 
suffering man to have an appreciative 
companion, to whom he could reveal 
the treasures of knowledge which 
had been fruitlessly stored in his 
mind for all the years of his wander- 
ings in Egypt, in India and China, 
and lastly in Japan. Robert, and 
now Sara also, plunged into the 


SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” 1 79 


it 


Study of the Japanese language and 
art, Mr. Gardner being their guide 
and teacher. An air of activity and 
life took possession of the hitherto 
solemn house, and sounds of music 
and laughter banished the silence 
that had reigned there. 

Besides his work with Mr. Gard- 
ner, Robert also resumed the series 
of letters or papers which he had 
begun to write on the ship. He 
brought this work also to the pleas- 
ant, half-closed porch where Sara 
usually sat. He would not be separ- 
ated from her except when it was 
unavoidable. 

One day, coming in with a bundle 
of papers in his hand, he found Sara 
dressed in complete Japanese cos- 
tume. She wore a lovely kimono of 
pale green crepe, fantastically and 
gorgeously embroidered. Her hair 
was combed high up on her head in 
the approved Japanese style, and she 
was sitting on the floor, opposite to 
a little Japanese girl, who was giving 
her a lesson on the samosen. She 
arose as he came in, and bowed be- 
fore him until her sleeves touched 


8o ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


the floor, drawing in her breath and 
bidding him welcome in Japanese. 
He laughed at the quaint picture 
which she made, then seated himself 
a little way off and began to write. 
Sara was comically droning out a 
song in a little voice as much like her 
teacher’s as she could make her own. 
Looking up to see Robert laugh at 
her, she surprised him pressing his 
hand to his side. She rose instantly, 
and sent her little teacher away, say- 
ing that she could sing no longer. 
Going to Robert, she took the pen 
from his hand and knelt beside him. 
Her eyes asked the question her lips 
could not utter. 

“ It is nothing, dearest,” he said. 
“ Only a trifling pain — a sort of 
reminiscence of pain, rather. Do 
not be troubled ; I have too much to 
live for to be ill again.” 

“It is the writing,” she said. “I 
wonder that I have let you do 
it.” 

Taking the pen in her hand she 
seated herself on the floor. 

“ Dictate,” she went on. “ I will 


“l SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” l8l 


take it in shorthand, and then write 
it out for you.” 

“Can you write in shorthand?” 
he asked, surprised. 

“Why, certainly,” she said. “I 
did all my dictations in shorthand 
my last two years in college, and all 
the lectures too. You may have to 
speak slowly at first, because I am 
out of practice.” 

Robert threw himself down upon 
a long bamboo chair, so as to be on 
a level with his amanuensis, and 
began to dictate. They worked in 
this way for some time without inter- 
ruption. It seemed to both of them 
that their thoughts were one. Sara 
divined the words almost before they 
were spoken, and Robert seemed to 
himself to have a new sense, a kind of 
intuition, which reached out into the 
realms of thought and laid the secrets 
of life, simple and bare, before him. 
After an hour or two had passed, 
Sara laid the pen down and looked at 
him with eyes full of tenderest love. 

“Oh, Robert, how happy we are!” 
she said. 


i 82 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Time passed quietly and quickly 
now. The days were so filled with 
work and pleasure that they slipped 
by uncounted. Robert and Sara 
drank deeply of the cup of life, 
whose ceaseless upflowing is joy. It 
was only by noting the changes in 
themselves and those around them 
that the passage of time could be 
seen. Strangely, in no one was 
change more noticeable than in Mr. 
Gardner. The deep fold in his brow 
smoothed itself out, the look of stern 
self-repression left his mouth. He 
was interested in every detail of their 
life, and took the keenest delight in 
planning excursions into the interior. 
Many times, as he retraced with his 
light-hearted companions the paths 
which years before he had passed 
over only to wear out the weary day, 
he marveled to find the world so 
beautiful. He did not have the air 
of an old man who wishes to give 
pleasure to his children, but rather 
that of one who finds intense enjoy- 
ment in everything himself. Sara, 
watching him, saw that it was his lost 
youth returning, and she realized 


SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” 183 


<< 


that this father who had spent the 
best years of his life alone and sor- 
rowful, had been born to be a light- 
hearted, happy man. She redoubled 
her efforts to atone to him for the 
past. 

Mr. Gardner was especially fond 
of little Japanese children, and as a 
sequence they were fond of him. 
Often as he sat on the porch of his 
house, ten or twelve of them would 
come trooping up and wait shyly for 
his invitation to enter. He knew 
how to make them at home, and soon 
their tiny feet clattered about the 
porch. There was such a droll mix- 
ture of mischievous gayety and almost 
solemn politeness in their play, that 
he was never tired of watching them. 
When the sound of his hearty laughter 
mingled with their shrill shouts, Sara, 
sitting at the other end of the porch 
with Robert, would lookup and smile 
at him. They had no need to put 
into words the thoughts which were 
simultaneous to each of them. 

As for Robert, he grew stronger 
day by day. No one would have 
thought of calling him an invalid — 


i84 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


this bronzed man who strode over the 
hills with the step of an athlete. His 
mind was absorbingly occupied with 
his work. As in the temple of life 
one hall opens ever into another and 
more lofty one, so to his mind each 
new truth he learned led to another 
and greater, and one life seemed all too 
short in which to declare the height 
and depth of the love of God as it 
was being revealed to him in His law. 

In the midst of this home, its 
central glory, its meaning and reason, 
Sara lived, daughter and wife. 
About her was an atmosphere of 
tenderness and sympathy which was 
felt even by strangers who entered 
the house, which enfolded the 
dwellers within it and was like the 
peace of God, which passeth all un- 
derstanding. 

A call from the outside roused 
them to a consciousness of the world 
beyond them. Robert received a 
letter from his friend, the Boston 
publisher. He wrote ; 

I have been hoping to hear that you 
were ready to return to your own country. 
There is need for you here, and however 


SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” 185 


much you may do with your pen from the 
Orient, there is no question that you could 
be more useful here, and, if your health is 
sufficiently restored, that your place is here. 
I am moved to write this to you now, because 
of certain special circumstances. Hughson, 
of the Washington Standard^ is about to 
retire, and the syndicate has applied to me 
for suggestions as to his successor. I know 
that it would be unwise for you to attempt to 
live in Boston, but the climate of Washington 
is mild, except for a little while each year, 
and I think you would be able to endure it 
safely. This makes it possible, and then 
come the other considerations, namely, that 
as one of the department editors of the Stand- 
ard, you would have a strong position from 
which to carry on your work ; and also that 
if you were here, in the field, there would 
surely open before you a personal career of 
usefulness and importance. Think of it, and 
let me know your decision as soon as possible. 
I can hold the position for you for a little 
while, but of course, if you decide to accept, 
it will be necessary for you to come at once. 

To Robert and Sara there was no 
difficulty in deciding the question on 
its merits. If Robert’s health was so 
far established that it would be safe 
for him to return home, it was best 
that he should do so. Sara’s ambi- 
tion took fire at once at the thought 


l86 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


of what Robert might be and do in 
the great world of men and events ; 
but there was a great obstacle — it 
might well be an insurmountable 
one. What would it mean to Mr. 
Gardner? 

“Let us take the letter to father,” 
Sara said, after they had sat silently 
thinking for some time. 

Mr. Gardner read the letter 
through; then, rising from his chair, 
he walked slowly back and forth on 
the porch, pausing to look off at the 
stretch of water and the clustering 
houses below him. His mind re- 
viewed the years he had spent in this 
place. He recalled his first coming; 
the feeling which he had then had, 
that this was an asylum for him in 
which he could wait for the end; and 
the stretch of long, weary years that 
had passed, to blossom at last into the 
unhoped-for, inconceivable happiness 
of the last year and a half. He did 
not hesitate. The place was dear, 
but it was only the outside. The real 
thing was the human love which gave 
it value. He went to Robert, and 
laid his hand on his shoulder. 


SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.” 187 


“I know you are thinking of me,” 
he said. “You need not, my son. 
I will go with you. It will be good 
for me to see my native land again.” 

It was the first time that he had 
spoken to Robert by that name, and 
Sara put her arms around his neck 
and kissed him, while tears of joy 
stood in her eyes. 

Mr. Gardner had a marvelous 
collection of art treasures, and the 
packing was an affair of great impor- 
tance. No one except the gentle- 
handed Japanese themselves are to 
be trusted in handling these fragile 
beauties. Robert was, of course, 
worse than useless — he was in the 
way; therefore it happened that he 
sat alone, one evening, just in the 
gloaming. He was on the porch, 
hidden from view of passers by a 
folding screen. Within, Sara was 
singing a happy little song as she 
went busily about. It formed a 
sort of accompaniment to Robert’s 
happy thoughts. A party of tour- 
ists came slowly down from the hill- 
top, and, seeing the unusual stir 
about the house, paused for a 


l88 ROBERT ATTERBURY, 


moment. It was a woman’s voice 
that spoke: 

“This is the house where the tall 
American lives, the one who has such 
a beautiful wife, is it not?” 

It was another woman’s voice that 
answered, in a cruel, laughing tone : 

“Beautiful, if you will; but cer- 
tainly not wife.” 

“Why,” said the first, “you don’t 
mean that there is anything wrong 
about that woman? I would have 
said it was utterly impossible.’’ 

“Appearances are often deceitful, 
my dear, and it happens that I know 
for a certainty that of which I speak, ’ ’ 
the same hard voice replied. 

They had been gone for some time 
when Robert rose to his feet. He 
went directly to Mr. Gardner. 

“I would like to speak to you. 
Can you sit down for a little while?’’ 

Mr. Gardner saw that Robert’s 
manner was serious. Instantly he 
laid down the precious lacquer he 
was wrapping, and sat down to listen. 
Robert did not tell him what he had 
just overheard, not considering it 
necessary to annoy him. 


SAY UNTO THEE, ARISE.’' 189 




“I have been thinking that before 
we leave Japan, it will be wise that 
Sara and I should be married,” he 
said. “It is the only way that our 
life, which we have found so happy, 
can go on.” 

A shade of anxiety crossed Mr. 
Gardner’s face. 

“The simple performance of the 
marriage ceremony will make no 
difference to us; it will give Sara 
my name, and our relation will 
not be questioned by the outside 
world. We are in absolute accord 
as to the fundamental principles of 
life, and you need have no fears. It 
is the point of view which constitutes 
the temptation.” 

This is the way in which it came 
about, that on one morning, when the 
Gallic sailed from Yokohama, bound 
for San Francisco, Mr. and Mrs. 
Robert Atterbury stood on the deck 
beside Mr. Gardner, and watched 
the land slowly sink down into the 
sea, until nothing of their first home 
remained to their sight except the 
crest of Fuji-yama. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE BLETHEN RECEPTION. 

HE Blethen mansion was 
ablaze with lights. Mr. 
and Mrs. P. Van Ruger 
Blethen were giving a re- 
ception to their cousin, 
Mr. Robert Atterbury, and his bride. 
Everybody who was anybody was 
there or on his way there, and the 
scene was very gay and brilliant. 

“The beautiful Mrs. Blethen,” as 
she was almost universally called, 
was never more beautiful than to- 
night. There were no visible lines 
in her perfect face, there was no 
suggestion of ennui or weariness in 
her perfect manner, as she greeted 
her guests and turned to present 
them to Sara. Some might have 
said that she was cold and haughty 
in her bearing; an admirer would 



THE BLETHEN RECEPTION. 19I 


have said that her repose and self- 
poise were wonderful. 

You and I are permitted to join 
this throng, and to scrutinize, more 
closely than would be possible if we 
were seen ourselves, the beautiful 
women and courtly men who enter 
here. As soon as our eyes are 
accustomed to the brilliant proces- 
sion, and our ears have learned to 
detect tones and undertones in this 
constant flow of compliment and 
greeting, we find here strange things. 
There is a not quite disguised tolera- 
tion in the manner of some toward 
Blethen. He stands, as in duty 
bound, near his wife, and receives 
their guests with her; but he has lost 
the easy self-possession that used to 
be one of his chief characteristics. 
Sometimes there is a faintly percep- 
tible scorn under the smiles and 
compliments that are lavished on 
Claire, and more than once we note 
the glance of an eye which seems to 
pass from her to the statue-like form 
of Jean Sievert. 

M. Sievert is leaning indolently 
against the side of a door, at a little 


192 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


distance from the family group. He 
appears to notice no one in the room 
except Claire. His eyes are fixed on 
her face, and he is alert to catch the 
least glance of her eye. Although 
Claire does not look toward him, we 
know that she recognizes that he is 
there; we know, too, that Blethen 
feels the Frenchman's presence, and 
that it is this that gives him the un- 
certain, uneasy air we noticed at first. 

As we scan the guests, we are at 
once struck by the involuntary change 
that passes over each one who, turn- 
ing from the lovely hostess, meets 
Sara’s eyes. After a little we begin 
to divide the crowd into two groups; 
those who shrink, ever so little, 
abashed before the simple nobility of 
her face and bearing, and those whose 
sympathetic natures recognize at once 
the presence of one to whom they 
gladly pay homage. 

As for Sara, she is simply and truly 
glad and happy. In all this crowd 
she sees only her husband’s old 
friends, who for his sake are kind to 
her. There is to her an exhilarating 
promise in her surroundings. She 


THE BLETHEN RECEPTION. 193 


feels herself at home again after long 
absence, and is saying to herself that 
it is here, among their own people, 
in their own country, that Robert is 
to find the career of usefulness and 
success that is now a well-formed 
ambition in her mind. Her gladness 
sheds itself on all around her, and 
replaces with quite a new element 
the elegant indifference usual on such 
occasions. 

Later in the evening, when the 
crowd forms little groups here and 
there, it is interesting to see those 
who come to claim a few minutes’ 
conversation with Sara, and those 
who stand a little way off, looking at 
her with curious eyes. More than 
once Robert sees Claire gazing at his 
wife with a strange, wistful question 
in her face. 

Among the guests are a number of 
old men, and without exception they 
gather in the group that surrounds 
Sara. They come to offer to her the 
most sincere worship that youth and 
beauty ever receive — that of wisdom 
and experience. In all their length 
of days they have found nothing else 


194 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


that can compare with them. Here 
they meet something new ; something 
more than the ordinary careless 
acceptance with which youth is wont 
to gather up its store of adulation. 
Her quick sympathy goes out to 
them, to each one of them. The 
tone of her voice, which is not afraid 
to be tender ; the light in her eyes, 
which has no need to hide its love 
and kindness for everyone, are like a 
blessing to all around her. One of 
these aged men, whose silver hair has 
long been a crown which the nation 
has delighted to honor, when going 
away, placed his hand lightly on her 
head. 

“God bless you, dear child,’’ he 
says, ‘ ‘and keep your heart always as 
sweet as now! “ 

The guests were gone, the servants 
were turning out the lights. Blethen, 
after waiting for a moment to see if 
Sievert were coming, had taken his 
way to the club. 

Claire sat with her hands under her 
head, leaning back in an easy chair. 


THE BLETHEN RECEPTION. I95 


Her attitude was one that betokened 
great fatigue, and now there were 
heavy shadows under her eyes and 
faint lines at their corners. Sievert 
stood silently waiting for her to move 
or speak, that he might bid her good- 
by. He had formed the habit of 
being always the last to leave her, the 
last to say good-night. It was little, 
and society, which had already whis- 
pered its doubts and expectations, 
would have been surprised had it 
known that between these two, who 
were almost inseparable, there had 
passed no word that might not have 
been spoken aloud in any presence. 
Words are indeed not needed; under 
such circumstances they are worse 
than useless. Jean knew that his 
whole life was swayed by his passion 
for Claire. He had been attracted 
to her at first by her beauty and her 
loneliness, and with the easy con- 
science of his kind he had let himself 
drift into an absorbing passion, which 
drew him back to her no matter how 
often he took himself away. What 
he did not know, because she was too 


198 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


would be too much fatigued to go 
to-day. He went in and waited for 
a few minutes; she came down with 
her bonnet on. 

“I am indeed glad that you are 
rested enough to go out,” he said, 
looking at her with the expression of 
careful tenderness which he per- 
mitted himself to wear when they 
were alone. 

She was restless. There was an 
unusual flush on her cheek, and a 
passionate excitement in her eyes. 

‘T am going to my aunt’s, to see 
Robert’s wife,” she said. 

“And I, may I have the pleasure 
of accompanying you?” he asked. 

The flush deepened a little. 

“No; I think not to-day, if you 
please,” she replied. “lam taking 
Whitwell, and it would not be pleas- 
ant for you to go with the child. I 
shall be at home again at five. 
Come then for tea, will you not?” 

He bowed his acquiescence in 
whatever she chose to do. He had 
never known her to take her child 
out with her before. Indeed, he 
never thought of the child as hers. 


THE BLETHEN RECEPTION. 199 


but only vaguely as Blethen’s. 
Blethen was fond of the boy, often 
took him to drive, and talked con- 
stantly of him to his acquaintances. 
Now, as Sievert stood contemplating 
Claire, he understood what was 
going on in her mind — that she was, 
probably half unconsciously, using 
the child to bring herself into closer 
relation with Sara. He recognized 
all at once the hopeless dreariness of 
her life, and for the moment at least 
felt all the passionate anger which 
was surging through her soul. He 
went close to her and held out his 
hand. 

“Yes, I will come at five; but 
you, are you still asking the ques- 
tion of last night? You need not go 
to her to have it answered. There 
is only one answer — only one, and 
that is waiting for you here, al- 
ways.” 

She drew her hand away and 
averted her eyes. She was so 
wretched, and she would not let him 
see the battle she was fighting; not 
indeed not to love him, but not to let 
him know it. Nancy came in with 


200 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Whitwell, and she bade Jean au 
reiwir and drove away. 

They entered Mrs. Atterbury’s 
sitting room, and Whitwell walked 
inmmediately to her side, and put his 
hand in hers. He always called her 
“grandmother,” and indeed he found 
the pleasure and happiness of his 
life in her house, where he was per- 
fectly at home. That he was a 
sturdy, healthy little fellow, light- 
hearted and happy as a child should 
be, was almost entirely owing to the 
care she had given him, and to the 
fortunate neglect of his parents. 
They counted for almost nothing in 
his wholesome life, of which “grand- 
ma” and Nancy were the good 
angels. 

Claire seated herself and called to 
him to come to her. She had some 
vague idea that she would talk to 
Sara about him, and she wanted to 
hear Sara talk; she wanted, if pos- 
sible, to understand her. The child 
paid no attention to his mother, but 
stood with one little elbow on the arm 
of Mrs. Atterbury’s chair, looking 
gravely around the room. 


THE BLETHEN RECEPTION. 201 


There were a number of people 
present, and Sara was at the other 
end of the room, evidently absorbed 
in the conversation going on there. 
Robert drew a chair near to Claire’s, 
and began to talk to her. His eyes, 
full of sympathy, the tone of his 
voice, which seemed to her full of 
pity for her, almost maddened her. 
At last she broke out: “Robert, tell 
me, in Heaven’s name, what is it that 
makes you and Sara so different from 
all the world? Is it something real, 
or do you only appear to be so im- 
possibly happy?’’ 

Robert looked over to where Sara 
was sitting before he answered, and 
Claire followed his glance. Whitwell 
had left his place at his grandmother’s 
side, and, crossing directly through 
the room, had climbed into Sara’s 
lap. He laid his head on her breast 
and gazed straight into her face with 
an expression of perfect content. At 
the moment when Robert and Claire 
looked at them, Sara, bending over 
him, kissed him fondly, and he put 
his arm tightly around her neck. 
Claire turned very pale, and rose 


202 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


from her chair. She felt smothered, 
and feared that some cry of pain 
would escape her lips. 

“I must go,” she said. “Tell 
Nancy to bring him home.” 

She went out alone. 




CHAPTER XX. 

HOME BUILDING. 

HE Atterburys made but 
a brief stay in Boston. 
Robert obtained the posi- 
tion of which his friend 
had written, and when they 
had paid a short visit to his old home 
they, accompanied by Mr. Gardner, 
went to live in Washington. 

Robert’s enthusiasm and ambition 
were great, not only to fill the place 
for which his friend had vouched for 
his fitness, but to make it of greater 
and farther reaching importance. 
He gave himself vigorously to this 
work, but it was not first nor of chief 
importance in his life. Here and 
now he and Sara were to build their 
home, and they both brought to the 
undertaking all their intelligence. 

They had in themselves, in their 



204 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


united life, the indispensable corner- 
stone upon which must rest every 
happy domestic hearth. They un- 
derstood by “home” far more than 
physical comfort and pleasure, far 
more than even domestic happiness 
for themselves. To them “home” 
was a shrine where all who came 
were to be blessed; a sacred fire, 
always bright and clear, where every 
brother and sister might find light 
and warmth. This kind of home 
they made, working with undivided 
interest, and giving to it the best 
within themselves. At first it was in 
a small house, which they found in 
Washington ; but after a few months 
of careful consideration of localities, 
Mr. Gardner bought for them a place 
on one of the hillsides a little way 
out of the city. 

It had an air of quiet, almost of 
country life, while below it, in full 
view from the windows and veranda, 
lay the beautiful city, with its noble 
avenues and the stately domes that 
always remind the spectator of the 
dignity of its place in the nation and 
among nations. The place was not 


HOME BUILDING. 


205 


new, which was fortunate, because 
the lawn that sloped away from the 
broad veranda was soft as velvet, and 
the trees that threw their shadows on 
the grass were tall and venerable. 
Mr. Gardner had lived too long in 
Oriental countries to feel quite at 
home in an ordinary, conventional 
house in the United States. He built 
for himself and his art collections a 
wing which combined the luxury of 
India with modern conveniences. 
Sara and Robert arranged their own 
part of the house to suit themselves. 
In all that they did, they never lost 
sight of the fact that the adornment 
of the house was only an outside 
matter ; and while it was a great 
delight to them to make it expressive 
of themselves, they knew that the 
true ornaments of a home are its 
friends. 

There is no place in the world 
where the opportunities for making 
an ideal home are greater than in 
Washington. The variety in the 
charming and interesting people to 
be found there leaves nothing to be 
desired, as far as material is con- 


2o6 


ROBERT ATTERBtfRY. 


cerned. These they gathered into 
their home, not so much by what 
they did for people, as by the subtle 
influence of what they were. It 
would have puzzled many to define 
why they always went to the Atter- 
burys’ with joy, and came away 
refreshed and comforted. Many a 
careworn statesman who took his way 
to their house as a matter of course, 
when he had a brief leisure, never 
stopped, perhaps, to analyze the 
rest and peace he found there. 

Time gave permanence to all these 
joys. Living became synonymous 
with growing and developing. 
Naturally, as must happen to every 
American in a like position, Robert 
was drawn more and more into polit- 
ical work. He studied statesman- 
ship from the point of view of an 
American citizen w^ho recognizes the 
strengths and weaknesses of our 
people, and seeks the good of the 
whole country. He wielded a strong 
and virile pen, and its power came 
to be felt and acknowledged. In all 
that he did and strove to do, Sara 
had a part — not merely that of wifely 


HOME BUILDING. 


207 


interest, but of intelligent co-opera- 
tion. They went hand in hand, and 
often neither could have told which 
had first had the important idea, or 
whose expression had been the force- 
ful way of putting it before the 
public. 

As Robert’s work took his time 
more completely, Sara became more 
fully occupied with social duties. 
She was interested in everyone and 
everything, and it would not have 
been possible to her to turn away 
from anyone leaving the impression 
behind her that she did not care. In 
her house was always to be found 
real society, which is a rare thing in 
these days. 

However occupied or absorbed 
they were, they always kept the best 
of themselves for each other. The 
early morning was sacred. They 
walked or rode about the lovely 
country, or, if the weather did not 
permit them to be out of doors, they 
sat together in their private sitting 
room and lived in each other’s 
thoughts, and so grew always closer 
and nearer. What more or better 


2o8 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


can you say of a man’s life than 
is expressed in this? — Robert was 
satisfied. 

Was Sara satisfied? At least she 
did not know that she was not. 





CHAPTER XXI. 

THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 

HEY had just come through 
an exciting political cam- 
paign, and Robert’s work 
had brought him very near 
to some of the greatest men 
of the nation. He was intensely 
interested in the movement - -of 
events. He knew that these men 
depended upon him in certain ways, 
and he felt himself a responsible 
part of the important affairs of the 
nation.' All this did not take him 
away from Sara in any true sense of 
the word, but it took his time, and 
more or less his thoughts. 

Sara was sometimes restless, and 
could not account to herself for her 
feelings. Too much of her time was 
her own to dispose of as she felt 
inclined. While she was never at 



210 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


a loss to find employment, it was, nev- 
ertheless, arbitrary employment, and 
she had times of longing for duties 
which should take possession of her, 
for which work should be a necessity. 

One of the results of the late 
election had been to bring her 
cousin, Margaret Hunter, to live in 
Washington. Margaret’s husband 
was now quite a successful lawyer, 
but his ambition was not satisfied, 
and he had decided that it never 
would be satisfied by any success for 
which he could hope at the bar. 
Therefore he had turned his attention 
to the political arena. Here he had 
achieved his first triumph; he had 
been elected to the House of Repre- 
sentatives; and being still a young 
man, he looked forward to the future 
with boundless ambition. 

It was a great pleasure to Sara to 
welcome Margaret to Washington. 
She had seen her for a few days 
when she passed through San Fran- 
cisco, on her way from Japan, and 
they had been constant correspond- 
ents. They were entirely different 
in nature and in training, but in 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 2lt 


affection they were sisters, and all 
the details of Margaret’s life were of 
importance to Sara. She supposed 
that she understood them, and would 
have been surprised to find that she 
really neither knew nor understood 
her cousin. 

Margaret had loved her husband 
with a calm, passionless affection, 
and he had accepted this love as all 
he could ask, because he supposed 
it to be all that her nature was capable 
of. It made no great demands upon 
him, and even in the first year of 
their married life, his business was 
allowed to claim the first place in 
his attention. Then a child was 
born. Joseph Hunter was a man of 
quick understanding, and it was 
also a part of his professional train- 
ing to read people’s characters by 
their actions. When he saw Mar- 
garet with her child, when he heard 
the tones of her voice as she talked 
to it, he realized all at once how 
little he had known of her real nature, 
and that he had never touched the 
depths of her heart. He was shocked, 
and, perhaps, mortified as well, but it 


212 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


seemed to him ridiculous to put him- 
self forward as the rival of his own 
child. He retired more and more 
into himself — which is another way 
of saying that he buried himself 
more and more in his business — and 
made no sign. After two years 
another child was born, and Mar- 
garet, all unconscious of her short- 
comings as a wife, was wholly ab- 
sorbed in her children. She did not 
dream that her husband spent lonely 
hours in the library which he would 
gladly have given to her. 

The end came suddenly and 
terribly. The terror which walketh 
at noonday entered their house. 
Both children had diphtheria, and, 
after three days of indescribable 
agony, Margaret’s arms were empty 
and her heart desolate. She turned 
to her husband now, and the lives 
which prosperity had left separate, 
sorrow united. Joseph found the 
sweetest hours of his life those in 
which he held his stricken wife in his 
arms and felt that he could comfort 
her. 

This sorrow was a year old when 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 213 


they came to live in Washington. 
Sara had sympathized with Margaret 
in her loss, but w^as not prepared for 
the change it had made in her. She 
was thin and worn, the gray hair 
showed on her temples, and she went 
about almost without a smile. She 
seemed to be always living over those 
terrible days with their fatal ending, 
and to be utterly unable to interest 
herself in anything else. Sara could 
not understand such hopeless grief, 
but this did not prevent her from 
devoting herself to the task of com- 
forting her cousin. She was untiring 
in her labor of love. Sometimes 
Robert thought the improvement in 
Margaret was hardly enough to com- 
pensate for the great exhaustion to 
Sara, but he would not say anything 
that could put any bounds to the 
bountiful outgoing of Sara’s rich 
nature. 

So the winter and spring passed, 
and summer was there. One day 
Margaret sat with Sara on the veran- 
da, which looked out over the lawn 
and down to where the river shone in 
the sunshine. It was warm, and a 


214 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


faint haze spread over all the valley 
below them, softening the outlines. 

Margaret, as usual, talked of her 
children, telling over all their little 
childish ways and sayings, and Sara, 
feeling that it was best to let the sad 
heart have its own way, listened sym- 
pathetically. 

“It is very strange that you have 
never had any children, Sara, I do 
not think I should feel that I had 
really ever lived if I had not had 
mine.” 

Sara’s face flushed, and she turned 
away while Margaret went on: 

“Of course one child can never 
take the place of another, and nothing 
can ever console me for the loss of 
mine, but it does help me to bear it 
that I expect another so soon. You 
cannot know how impatient I am for 
the time to come.” 

Sara made a great effort and tried 
to lead Margaret to speak of the 
expected one, and by and by the 
conversation became quite cheerful. 

That night, when Robert came 
home, he found a strange restlessness 
about Sara. He talked to her of all 


THE fennel's bitter LEAF. 215 


that he had seen and done during 
the day, but she showed little inter- 
est. Usually she said to him, “Be- 
gin at the beginning and tell me all 
that has happened,” but to-night, for 
the first time in their life, her atten- 
tion wandered and she asked nothing. 

“Are you not well, dearest?” he 
asked anxiously. 

She made an effort to bring her 
wandering thoughts back, and smiled 
at him, but he was almost sure that 
he saw tears in her eyes. However, 
she said that it was nothing. Com- 
ing in, a day or two later, he was 
surprised to find her sewing. He 
dislike to see her sew, and she did 
not herself care to do it ; it was rare 
for her to do more than fasten on a 
button, or something of that sort. 
He went toward her, and was still more 
surprised by the childish action which 
made her put the hand that held the 
work behind her. He stopped short. 

“What is it? Something which I 
may not see?” he asked. 

She laughed, and blushed shyly. 

“Oh, no! You may see it. It is 
for Margaret’s baby.” 


2i6 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


She held the dainty garment of 
lace and muslin up for his inspection. 
Robert stood looking down upon her. 
There was a look in her face that 
sent a pang through his heart. What 
was it? Was she not satisfied, as he 
was? Was his love not sufficient for 
her? He stooped and gathered her 
in his arms. 

“My precious wife, my dear, 
brave, true wife!” he said. 

She folded the work up, and rose 
to her feet. They went out on the 
veranda ; she clasped her hands over 
his arm, and they walked under the 
stars until late in the evening. 
When they came in, and she said 
good-night to him, her eyes were 
calm and happy, and looked straight 
into his. Robert watched her with 
anxiety for the next few days, but 
she was all her own sweet self, and 
his fears were quieted. 

Weeks passed and brought the 
important day; in Margaret’s arms 
lay a little daughter. Sara had been 
with her almost every day, and had 
shared the joys of anticipation ; she 
had also given her promise to be the 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 21 7 


baby’s godmother. Now, however, 
she did not go to see it. Each day 
she sent flowers, with messages of 
love and congratulation, but always 
with some excuse — that she was very 
busy, or tired, or not very well. 
Margaret wondered, but did not 
divine the cause. The days were 
rather long for her, especially since 
Joseph, feeling that he was not 
needed at home, had gone away for 
a little holiday. A friend, the owner 
of the yacht Vivien^ had invited him 
to go for a week’s sail along the 
coast, and Margaret had urged him 
to accept. 

One day, when the baby was two 
weeks old, Margaret had it dressed 
in a lovely gown which was Sara’s 
gift, and, with many careful instruc- 
tions to the nurse and coachman, 
sent it to call upon Sara. 

The day was sultry. There was 
languor in the air and on the earth. 
The leaves of the trees hung limp, 
and the butterflies lay breathless on 
the great dahlias. For days Sara 
had with difficulty repressed the pain 
that consumed her. She had 


2i6 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


She held the dainty garment of 
lace and muslin up for his inspection. 
Robert stood looking down upon her. 
There was a look in her face that 
sent a pang through his heart. What 
was it? Was she not satisfied, as he 
was? Was his love not sufficient for 
her? He stooped and gathered her 
in his arms. 

*‘My precious wife, my dear, 
brave, true wife!” he said. 

She folded the work up, and rose 
to her feet. They went out on the 
veranda; she clasped her hands over 
his arm, and they walked under the 
stars until late in the evening. 
When they came in, and she said 
good-night to him, her eyes were 
calm and happy, and looked straight 
into his. Robert watched her with 
anxiety for the next few days, but 
she was all her own sweet self, and 
his fears were quieted. 

Weeks passed and brought the 
important day; in Margaret’s arms 
lay a little daughter. Sara had been 
with her almost every day, and had 
shared the joys of anticipation ; she 
had also given her promise to be the 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 217 


baby’s godmother. Now, however, 
she did not go to see it. Each day 
she sent flowers, with messages of 
love and congratulation, but always 
with some excuse — that she was very 
busy, or tired, or not very well. 
Margaret wondered, but did not 
divine the cause. The days were 
rather long for her, especially since 
Joseph, feeling that he was not 
needed at home, had gone away for 
a little holiday. A friend, the owner 
of the yacht Vivien^ had invited him 
to go for a week’s sail along the 
coast, and Margaret had urged him 
to accept. 

One day, when the baby was two 
weeks old, Margaret had it dressed 
in a lovely gown which was Sara’s 
gift, and, with many careful instruc- 
tions to the nurse and coachman, 
sent it to call upon Sara. 

The day was sultry. There was 
languor in the air and on the earth. 
The leaves of the trees hung limp, 
and the butterflies lay breathless on 
the great dahlias. For days Sara 
had with difficulty repressed the pain 
that consumed her. She had 


2i8 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


struggled with the thing itself, but it 
had conquered her. If she could 
have gone to Robert, all would 
have been well, but her great- 
est care was to hide it from him. 
After all their blessed life together, 
was she to ruin all? Could she be so 
wicked, so ungrateful? So reason- 
ing, she put a fierce control upon 
herself when she was with him ; 
when he went away she gave way to 
bitter grief. 

On this morning she had risen with 
a dull pain in her head, and a feeling 
of irritability which made her wish 
to avoid everyone, for fear that she 
might say or do some unkind thing. 
She told Robert that she would not 
ride or walk, and turned away from 
his questioning almost fretfully. 
When she saw him mount his horse 
and ride away alone, she threw her- 
self on her couch and sobbed, saying 
to herself that even Robert no longer 
loved her, yet knowing all the time 
how absurd she was. She cried 
for an hour, and then her head 
ached so badly that she darkened 
her room and said that she would not 


THE fennel's bitter LEAF. 219 


see anyone. When Robert returned 
from his ride the servant told him 
that she was sleeping, and did not 
wish to be disturbed. With a heavy 
foreboding he went to his work. It 
was the first day in all their married 
life which had not been blessed by 
their morning’s pleasure taken to- 
gether. 

The day wore on. Sara slept a 
little and wept much. Shortly after 
noon the maid came into the room, 
bringing her a tiny note from Mar- 
garet Hunter. She opened one of 
the blinds and read the miniature 
card: “Baby Margaret makes her 
first visit to her godmother.” 

“Please, mum, de nuss have 
brought de baby,” the servant said. 

Sara began to tremble, but she 
went out onto the veranda, where the 
black nurse sat holding a parasol 
over the sleeping child. She took 
the baby, and, telling the nurse to 
wait where she was, went back into 
her own room and shut the door. 

Meanwhile Robert found it impos- 
sible to work. He longed to see his 
wife, to comfort her if he could, or 


220 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


to share her pain, so he went home. 
He drove up to the side of the 
house, and, stepping lightly onto 
the veranda, came suddenly to the 
open French window of her sitting 
room. The wind stirred the curtain 
a little ; just as he was about to lift 
it and go in, there appeared before 
him a sight which stayed his feet and 
made him cold with fear. 

At the side of a low couch which 
stood at the end of the room, Sara 
knelt, her face toward him. On the 
couch before her lay a sleeping child. 
She was flushed and excited. With 
trembling fingers she untied the 
baby’s cloak; folded it back; then 
took its cap from its head. She 
bent over it with a look of adoration, 
and covered its tiny hands with 
hungry kisses. Suddenly she put 
her hands to her own throat, and, 
opening her dress, laid bare her vir- 
gin breast. Drawing a low chair 
beside the couch and seating her- 
self, she took the baby up and laid 
its head upon her bosom. Its little 
hand, held tight in hers, she con- 
tinually covered with kisses. Then, 


THE fennel's bitter LEAF. 221 


in a moment, she began to sing a 
low sweet lullaby. 

Robert dropped the curtain and 
moved noiselessly away. He gained 
his own room, and shut the door on 
the misery which overwhelmed him. 

Outside, on the veranda, the nurse 
and Marie were indulging in the 
gossip so dear to their hearts. The 
air was stifling; as they talked, first 
one and then the other wiped beads 
of perspiration from her face. 

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed the 
nurse, ‘“pears to me it’s late in the 
season to be so hot. ’Pears like one 
can’t git dere bref, nohow.” 

“Looks like dere gwine ter be a 
change, anyway,” answered Marie, 
pointing to the south. 

Just showing its pointed edge 
above the trees, there was a cloud, 
slowly rising. In its path, apparently 
motionless, was a small leaden mass 
of vapor, which had in its very immo- 
bility an air of menace. The face of 
the nurse grew almost white. 

“’Fore de Lord, dere’s gwine ter 
be thunder an’ lightnin’ ! ” she ex- 
claimed. “I mus’ git home with de 


222 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


baby. Oh, bress de Lord! what’s I 
gwine ter do ef I doesn’t git home 
fust?” 

In the silent room, still rocking 
the child, Sara was oblivious of all 
that passed. Her song had ceased, 
but she still held the little fingers 
curled around her own, and her face 
was as the face of a madonna. 
There came a hurried knock at the 
door. She laid the baby on her lap, 
and at the same instant closed her 
dress. She looked round with a 
frightened air, as of one who wakens 
in a strange place. The nurse en- 
tered, and hurriedly put the child’s 
wraps on. She was too much excited, 
and too anxious to avoid the thunder, 
to notice Sara. She talked inces- 
santly as she hurried, saying that the 
baby’s mother would be anxious, and 
that she was sure the horses were 
afraid of thunder. In a very few^ 
minutes she went out with the baby, 
followed in a dazed sort of way by 
Sara. The coachman, who had been 
waiting in the* shade of the trees, 
came up, and in an instant they 
drove rapidly away. 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 223 


Robert, torn by conflicting emo- 
tions, had been watching from a 
window which looked out upon the 
veranda. He did not wish to go to 
Sara’s room while she had the child, 
nor was he willing to leave her alone 
for a moment after it was gone. He 
saw the nurse get into the carriage 
with it and drive away, saw Sara 
stand for a moment looking after 
them, and then go into her room. 
Thinking to startle her less by com- 
ing in at the front door, he put on 
his hat and went out; then, coming 
up the front steps rather noisily, to 
attract her attention, he entered her 
room. She was not there. He 
passed through into the next room 
and out into the hall. He did not 
find her. He called her name ; 
asked the servants. No one had seen 
her. Now thoroughly alarmed, he 
went to Mr. Gardner’s room to see 
if she were there. The expression 
of Robert’s face communicated his 
fear to her father, and both of them 
set about the search for her, love 
and fear straining every nerve to its 
uttermost. 


224 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Sara had indeed walked into her 
room, and, still almost in a stupor, 
conscious only that she was suffocat- 
ing and must have air, had picked up 
a broad sun hat and passed directly 
out of the window where Robert had 
stood watching her. She went out 
toward the back of the place, where 
in a moment she was hidden from 
view by a tall privet hedge. At the 
end of the hedge was a small gate, 
through which she passed into a 
field. Their house was near the top 
of the hill, and before the search for 
her had fairly begun she had reached 
the summit, gone down on the other 
side, and entered a little grove whose 
shade invited her. 

When she left the house there had 
not been a breath of air stirring, but 
even as she entered the grove the 
ribbons of her hat fluttered in the 
wind that began to sough in the tops 
of the trees. The sun was still an 
hour high; but the darkness, which 
was like a tangible pall, shut out the 
light, and she could hardly see her 
way. She noticed nothing, but went 
blindly on 


THE fennel's bitter LEAF. 225 


Suddenly she stood still and put 
her hands over her eyes. Every- 
thing in the world seemed to have 
come to an end for a moment; then 
the deafening thunder rolled around 
her and above her. A shudder ran 
through the grove, the trees moaned, 
and the branches waved wildly in the 
air, as if striving to find some safe 
stronghold. Sara opened her eyes, 
but could not bear the blaze. Flash 
after flash burst upon her; there was 
no darkness between, only a beating 
of crimson upon red, which made her 
stagger and sway from side to side, 
although she did not try to walk. 
The thunder roared tremendously. 
It filled the air to bursting, so that 
there seemed not to be room in all 
the universe for the crush of sound. 

Presently the rain fell in torrents. 
Sara, drenched and almost para- 
lyzed, strove to reach one of the 
larger trees. She thought there 
might be some protection in its 
strong trunk. Her dress caught on a 
projecting root, and she fell heavily 
forward. The next instant Robert’s 
arms were around her. He lifted 


226 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


her from the ground, and although 
the earth still shook under their feet 
with the trebly thundering storm, 
and he could not hear her voice, he 
was comforted because she put her 
arms around him and clung to him 
with the unmistakable air of one 
who has found the desired haven. 
He put her against the trunk of the 
tree and stood in front of her while 
she nestled close to him. He could 
feel the trembling in her form grow 
quiet, and when the fury of the 
storm was past, she lifted up her wet 
face to his and kissed him. 

“Oh, Robert!” she said; “I am 
so glad that you happened to come. 
I was lost! ” 

He wrapped her up as well as he 
could, and they started for home. 
In a minute she realized that he was 
very wet, and came fully to herself. 

“We must hurry. You will take 
cold. Oh, I am so sorry! How 
could you venture out in such a 
storm? Come, let us walk faster,” 
she said. 

She hurried him along, and before 
they reached home had resumed her 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 227 


usual attitude, that of caretaker of 
all in the house. She ordered a 
warm bath for Robert, with a thor- 
ough rubbing after it, and while tak- 
ing off her own wet clothes was 
superintending the preparation of a 
hot drink for him. She insisted that 
he should lie down and submit to be 
covered with an afghan, and offered, 
as a bribe, to read aloud to him. 

The storm had passed ; the air 
was full of unspeakable life and hap- 
piness; it seemed to have been puri- 
fied and revivified from heaven. In 
a sky of serenest blue the moon shone 
with regal splendor; each pool in the 
wet streets held her image in its 
heart, and all the leaves on the trees 
were laughing in inconsequential 
glee, as if they had never trembled 
before the storm king. Robert lay 
on the couch and listened to the 
voice he loved best. The window was 
open, and he could see out into the 
night. Was he dreaming, or had he 
wakened from a terrible nightmare? 

Mr. Gardner came in, and Sara 
laid her book down. She looked 
from one to the other, and read upon 


228 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


their faces the anxiety which they 
could not hide. Leaning forward, 
she slipped one hand into Robert’s, 
at the same time stretching out the 
other to her father. They under- 
stood the mute appeal, and both at 
once realized that the time had come 
when they must help her. How? 
They did not know, but they knew 
what kind of seeking it is that finds, 
and each was ready for the service 
with all that he was. They knew 
that she must have an absorbing 
occupation through which she could 
work out her own salvation. What? 
That they could not tell at once; but 
“the harvest is great and the laborers 
are few.’’ They did not doubt that 
the right thing could be found. 

Robert and Mr. Gardner sat long 
together that night, after Sara had 
gone to bed, talking of various plans 
and schemes. Robert walked up 
and down the room, and Mr. Gard- 
ner sat beside the open window. 
He looked older, and more as he 
had looked when Robert first went 
to Japan, than at any time since they 
had been in America. 


THE fennel’s bitter LEAF. 229 


Finally Robert stopped before him. 

“To put it in as few words as pos- 
sible, it is this: she is deprived by 
misfortune of her natural interest — 
that is, of children; but the world 
is full of children also deprived by 
misfortune of mother love and care. 
Here is our answer ; it is the natural 
one, and I will lose no time about it. 
To-morrow I will talk it over with 
her, and we will find the best way to 
bring her the children who need her 
as she does them.” 




CHAPTER XXII. 

“the wind bloweth where it 

LISTETH.” 

HERE is no more forcible 
illustration of the evil of 
an ill-regulated conscience 
than that of a woman who, 
profoundly impressed with 
the duty of ordering her household 
affairs systematically, sacrifices peo- 
ple to things — taking, for instance, 
a martyr-like pleasure in doing her- 
self a physical injury in order that 
the much overestimated goods and 
chattels may be in perfect condition. 

Margaret was one of these people. 
As soon as the baby and nurse were 
off on their visit, she looked about 
to see what her busy hands could 
find to do. She had earnestly 
endeavored to impress the nurse 
with the importance of putting each 



“the wind bloweth. ” 231 


thing not only in its own drawer, 
but in its own side of the drawer. 
Of course she had not succeeded ; 
nurse had learned, long ago, in 
her own childhood, how to hold a 
baby ; and later, how to wash it, puf 
it to sleep, and comfort it when it 
cried. Beyond these things neither 
her imagination nor her understand- 
ing went.. For days Margaret had 
felt that the baby’s bureau was not 
in order. Now she determined to 
attend to it. She turned from the 
window where she had stood to watch 
them start, and opened the top 
drawer. Heavens ! What a state of 
things! Lace dresses, nightgowns, 
bits of old linen, flannel skirts, caps, 
dainty embroidered shawls, boxes of 
cold cream, and powder and puffs, 
all thrown promiscuously every- 
where. It would have been discon- 
certing to anyone, and it over- 
whelmed Margaret with the sense of 
being accessory to a crime. 

She took everything from the 
bureau, relined the drawers with 
fresh white paper, and, with a face 
which each moment grew more stern. 


232 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


sorted and folded the little garments. 
She knew that she was very tired, 
altogether too tired, but she would 
not stop ; indeed, she could not stop. 
She hurried so that she might finish 
before her strength was entirely ex- 
hausted. She was so absorbed in her 
work that the clouds gathered with- 
out attracting her attention. She 
was kneeling on the floor, laying the 
dresses in the lowest drawer, when 
the first blinding flash of lightning 
came, followed by the terrible burst 
of thunder. Involuntarily she 
crouched as before a blow, and the 
next instant sprang to the window. 
A wild scene met her gaze. There 
was fury in the air and sky. 

Margaret rang the bell violently, 
and asked if the nurse had returned 
with the baby. When she found they 
had not come, she walked the floor, 
stopping each time she came to the 
window, against which the flames of 
lightning were beating. She strained 
eyes and ears for any sign of the car- 
riage. Her whole form shook as with 
cold, her teeth chattered, and when 
she could no longer stand she sank 


“the wind bloweth.” 233 


down beside the cradle, moaning 
and praying, “My baby! Oh, God 
in heaven, give me back my 
child!” 

In her anguish she seemed to see 
the horses maddened with fright, and 
dashing through the storm ; to hear 
the crash of the carriage against a 
post, and to behold her darling lying 
bruised, and perhaps dead, on the 
pavement in the pitiless rain. She 
struggled to her feet once more, 
grasped frantically at the air, and 
shuddered down in an unconscious 
heap on the floor. 

The coachman, alert for the safety 
of his horses, had taken no chances. 
He drove rapidly away from the 
Atterburys’ house, but when it be- 
came evident that there was no pos- 
sibility of reaching home before the 
storm broke, he turned his horses 
into the open door of a livery stable 
which they were passing; and when 
the first roar of the thunder came, he 
stood at their heads talking to them 
reassuringly. 

In the carriage, the child slept, 


234 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


undisturbed by human suffering or 
raging storm. 

But on the ocean, almost within 
sight of home, driving helplessly be- 
fore the wind, her rudder broken, her 
mast trailing over the side, the Vivien - 
rushed to meet her fate. Just ahead, 
the white water rose against the black 
sky. Now and again, in the red 
light, the hungry rocks gleamed for 
an instant, then hid themselves be- 
hind the foamy veil. There was 
only a moment left, and the stern 
faces of the men on board showed 
that each had prepared to meet the 
peril in his own way. Joseph Hunter 
had taken his coat and shoes off, 
ready to do what a strong swimmer 
might to save his life, but there was 
no hope in his white face. As the 
boat quivered on the crest of the last 
wave, and the cold spray dashed over 
him, his lips moved to utter one 
word — ‘ ‘ Margaret ! ’ ’ 

The morning dawned bright and 
gay. In every tree the birds were 
almost bursting their little throats, 


“the wind bloweth.” 235 


trying to express the joy of life. The 
water in the bay broke into rippling 
laughs and wreathed itself into smiles, 
reckless of what lay beneath its shin- 
ing surface. 

Robert found that Sara had taken 
cold and must lie down. He sat 
beside her for a while, talking cheer- 
fully, and then started to go into 
town. On the steps he met the 
coachman, who was coming to tell 
him of the rumor that the Vivien had 
gone down with all on board. He 
hastily stepped back into the house 
and told Mr. Gardner; then, leaving 
him to keep watch over Sara and see 
that no one told her, he hurried off 
to find what truth there was in the 
report. It was three o’clock in the 
afternoon when, fears having be- 
come certainties, he sorrowfully 
started for Margaret’s house, the 
bearer of the fatal news. As he 
drove along he tried in vain to call 
to his mind any possible words in 
which he could tell her what she 
must be told. Once he turned the 
horse toward his own home, to call 
Sara to help him. Then the mem- 


236 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


ory of the events of the previous day 
returned to him with fresh pain, and 
he felt depressed with care and sor- 
row almost beyond endurance. 

The moment he entered the house 
he saw that his tidings had preceded 
him. The servant who opened the 
door had that peculiar air of vica- 
rious mourning and suppressed ex- 
citement (which is a kind of enjoy- 
ment) that servants wear in the house 
of the dead who are not their dead. 

“Does Mrs. Hunter know?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir, she have 
been tole, early dis mo’ning. She is 
very bad, sir, an’ de docto’ done 
been heah mos’ all day. I was jus’ 
gwine down fo’ Mis’ Atterb’y. De 
docto’, he say dat she bette’ hab 
some frien’ heah befo’ night, an’ she 
been askin’ fo’ Mis’ Atterb’y all 
day.” 

Robert went up into the room. 
On the bed lay the poor little woman, 
death written plainly on her face. 
Beside her, on a pillow, where her 
restless hands could touch it, lay 
the child; and although Margaret 


‘‘the wind bloweth.” 237 


had almost lost the power to move, 
her eyes turned incessantly from it 
to the door. When she saw Robert 
she looked behind him to see if Sara 
were there. An expression of de- 
spair crossed her cold, damp face. 

“What is it?” Robert asked, bend- 
ing over her. “Tell me quickly, 
dear child, what can 1 do for you, 
what can we do?” 

His ear was close to her lips, and 
making a last great effort she spoke. 

“The baby — to Sara, to you.” 

He understood her and said, “You 
wish to give the baby to us?” 

She said, “Yes.” ^ 

“As if it were our very own, be- 
fore God and its dear father and 
mother, I promise you,” he answered. 

A faint smile shone on her face, 
and long, quivering breath struggled 
through her lips. She looked toward 
the child. Robert lifted it and laid it 
on her breast. A light paused above 
her, then settled down upon her. It 
was the light of another world. 

Sara was asleep on her couch 
when Robert reached home. He 


238 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


sat beside her, waiting for her to 
waken. His heart was full of sad- 
ness for the friend taken away in the 
prime of life; and mingled with this 
sorrow were other strong emotions. 
He could not grieve that Margaret 
was dead. It seemed so kind a thing 
that the fragile little woman, so unfit 
to meet the shocks and storms of 
life, should have gone with her hus- 
band into the blessed world where 
their children were waiting for 
them. Then, dominating all else, 
and mingled with the solemn ten- 
derness with which he assumed his 
new position toward the helpless 
babe she had given him, there was 
a great hope. It welled up within 
him, and shed its blessed influence 
over even his sorrow. Here was 
the imperative and needed call for 
Sara! 

He was thinking of all these 
things when she opened her eyes and 
smiled at him. Was she better? 
“Yes, almost well,” she said. Then, 
holding her hand in his, he told her, 
carefully and tenderly, of the ship- 
wreck, of Joseph’s death, and then 


“the wind bloweth. ” 239 


of Margaret’s. She was utterly over- 
come. Death had not come into her 
very presence before, and she could 
not have it so. With her tears for 
Margaret there was also self-re- 
proach, because she had not been 
with her. Robert held her in his 
arms and she wept unrestrainedly. 
When she grew quiet he rose and 
left the room. He had not told her 
of Margaret’s gift to them. He took 
the child from the nurse, and brought 
it and laid it in her amrs. 

“Take it. It is your own. She 
gave it to you with her latest word.’’ 

Sara’s whole form shook convul- 
sively. She held it for a moment, 
then, rising, went over to where 
Robert sat watching her. She knelt 
beside him, and, still holding it in 
her own arms, laid it on his knees. 

“Yours too, Robert,’’ she said. 
“Not mine unless it is yours.’’ 

He clasped them both and held 
them folded closely in his arms* 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FRUIT OF THE UPAS TREE. 

HE winter following the 
death of her cousins, and 
the advent of their baby 
into her house, was an 
eventful one to Sara. It 
would be more just to say that it 
was one of great development and 
growth. At first, her sorrow for the 
tragic fate of her cousins shadowed 
everything, and especially affected 
all that she did and felt for the child. 
She had a constant impression that 
Margaret was near her, and that the 
baby was only left for a time in her 
care. Gradually, the baby herself 
removed this feeling. Her glad 
greeting to Sara when she came in, 
the tiny outstretched arms which 
with undoubting trust claimed a 
mother’s love from her, at last made 



THE FRUIT OF THE UPAS TREE. 241 


her feel that the infant was truly her 
own. 

Her husband and her father, 
watching her with thoughtful care 
not unmixed with anxiety, were filled 
with wonder at the new unfolding of 
a nature which they had deemed 
already almost perfect. Through 
her they learned to take delight in the 
constantly changing child life before 
them, and they all found their lives 
set to a higher, clearer keynote than 
before. 

In his wonderful revelation of the 
uses of things, Swedenborg teaches 
that the angels who watch over us 
guard and keep with greatest care all 
that they can of our child life, of its 
joys and dear experiences, of its un- 
selfish loves and hopes, to bring them 
again to us, when, earth-soiled and 
world-worn, we approach the passage 
into the spirit world; that often these 
pure memories and untainted joys 
come with such refreshing influence 
to the spirit that it gladly leaves its 
later life to become a little child in 
the Kingdom of Heaven. Happy 
are they who can live so near to the 


242 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


real life of little children that these 
influences never leave them ! 

April had come again, and spring 
was in her glory. All the trees were 
bursting into leaf and blossom. 
Robert and Sara rode leisurely along 
the lovely Woodley Lane, which was 
then only a country byway. The 
spring was in their hearts, and they 
felt as young as the renewed earth. 
Robert whistled in answer to the 
meadow larks that sprang from the 
hedges as they passed, and Sara’s gay 
laugh was a natural and integral part 
of the morning. After a morning 
full of delight they turned into their 
own avenue and walked their horses, 
in order to prolong their pleasure for 
a few minutes. 

About halfway to the house they 
found the nurse sitting in the sun- 
shine with Baby Margaret. Sara 
drew in her rein. 

“Give her to me,” she said. “She 
shall have her first lesson in riding 
this morning.” 

Robert sprang from his horse, and, 
taking the little thing in his arms, 
put it up into Sara’s lap. She held 


THE FRUIT OF THE UPAS TREE. 243 


it with one arm and let the horse 
walk quietly around; then, seeing 
that the child enjoyed the motion, 
she quickened the pace. Having 
waited to see that they were safe, and 
knowing that the horse was as much 
to be trusted as a human being, 
Robert went on toward the house. 

On the veranda he found a mes- 
senger boy waiting for him, with a 
telegram. It was from Van Ruger 
Blethen, and simply said, “I am in 
great need of you. Can you come 
at once? Answer immediately.” 

With a Sudden reaction from all the 
peaceful influences of the morning, 
there came back to Robert the mem- 
ory of the note from Van Ruger 
which he had found waiting for him 
when he returned from California six 
years before, and of all the trouble 
and disaster which had followed. 
Instinctively he knew that this also 
was trouble; how much or for how 
many he could not surmise. The ex- 
periences of his life had made him 
strong to endure pain, and all he 
wished to know was how to meet 
what came, most usefully. In a few 


244 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


minutes Sara brought her horse to a 
stand beside the steps. 

“Here, Robert, take your little 
daughter. She has enjoyed her ride 
immensely. Why, what is the 
matter?” she asked as she saw her 
husband’s serious face. 

He handed her the telegram. 

“I will go with you,” she said, 
when she had read it. ‘‘You know 
it is very cold in Boston, and you 
remember ” 

She paused, and he finished the 
sentence. 

‘‘Yes, I remember very well, and 
I promise you that I will take no 
foolish risks. I do not think you 
had better go with me, because I 
must catch the eleven o’clock express. 
I will telegraph you as soon as I find 
what the trouble is; and if I am likely 
to be detained any length of time, 
you can come.” 

Sara consented to this arrangement. 

‘‘What do you suppose is the mat- 
ter?” she asked, as they went to make 
the necessary preparations. 

Robert shook his head. 

‘‘I will try not to imagine,” he 


THE FRUIT OF THE UPAS TREE. 245 


said. “Of course we know that such 
a life as Van Ruger and Claire have 
lived is unnatural and strained to the 
last degree. Poor Claire ! She was 
such a lovely child, and her life has 
all gone wrong. Poor Van! for that 
matter, too,” he added, after a mo- 
ment. “He is just as much to be 
pitied. They have both been sacri- 
ficed to this monster which we call 
civilized society.” 

When he was ready to leave he 
took Sara’s face between his hands 
and kissed her eyes and lips. 

“Thank God, my precious wife!” 
he said. 

Robert arrived in Boston early on 
the following morning. He went 
first to his mother’s house, where he 
found Mrs. Atterbury expecting him, 
with great grief and pain in her 
heart. Van Ruger had shot himself 
a little after ten o’clock the day be- 
fore. Claire had sailed for France 
on Tuesday; it was now Thursday. 
Mrs. Atterbury did not know what 
the reason for the suicide was. Van 
Ruger was quite dead when those 
who heard the shot rushed into the 


246 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


room. Beside him, on the table, 
was Robert’s telegram, saying that he 
would start for Boston at once. Mrs. 
Atterbury had gone to the Blethens’ 
and brought Whitwell home with her 
as soon as she had heard of the trou- 
ble; and that morning the postman had 
brought a letter for Robert addressed 
in Van Ruger’s handwriting. As 
the telegram told her that her son 
was on the way, she had done noth- 
ing more until he should come. Her 
tears flowed fast while she told all 
these details, and constantly she 
interrupted her story with ejacula- 
tions of “Poor Claire! Poor child! 
I am afraid that she will blame her- 
self! I am terribly afraid that she 
is to blame!” 

Robert consoled his mother as 
well as he could, and went to his 
own old room to read Van Ruger’s 
letter alone. It was short, and in- 
closed one from Claire, which was 
addressed to her husband. It said; 

I have been alone all night with this. I 
have known all along what the end would be, 
and now it is here. I have not sent for you 
on my own account. I am easily disposed of. 


THE FRUIT OF THE UPAS TREE. 247 


but the boy ! I made my will long ago, and 
settled everything on him, making you his 
guardian and the trustee of his property. 
For the love of God, Robert, take him and 
bring him up decently ; not as I was brought 
up. He is all that I care for now, and for a 
little while I thought I would send him out 

of this d d world before I quit it myself. 

Then I remembered you and your wife. Ask 
her to 

Here the letter broke off. The 
paper was covered with blots and 
scratched-out words. At the end 
was this: 

There is nothing I can do — nothing for 
my boy — my little boy — good-by — good-by, 
papa’s dear little fellow. 

Tears blinded Robert, and he 
groaned in bitterness. After a time 
he opened Claire’s letter and read: 

This is for you to read after the steamer 
has sailed. It is to tell you that at last I 
have taken myself entirely out of your life ; 
that you will see me no more. Will you be 
sorry or only relieved ? I do not know ; and 
strange as it seems to me that it should be so, 
it is nevertheless true that never since the 
first few weeks of our married life have I felt 
as kindly toward you as I do now, when I am 
leaving your house forever. I am sorry for 


248 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


you, too, and realize that you also might have 
had a happier life, and perhaps have been a 
different man, if it had not been for me. 
Well, you are free now. For me, through 
all these years of life in death which we have 
endured under the same roof, I have strug- 
gled against the tyrant of my own heart who 
bade me go and taste of life. I have given 
up the fight. This dead thing which we call 
respectability is not worth the sacrifice. You 
know that, and have never made the fight. 
Now — I am going to live ; to drink all that 
I can from the cup whose dregs, they say, 
are death and despair. I do not care. I am 
only in haste to get it to my lips ; I only 
regret the years I have wasted ; I fear noth- 
ing but to grow old before I have drained its 
last drop. 





I 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 

OR many years life at the 
Atterbury home was like 
the flow of a majestic 
river, which, brim full to 
the banks, finds its way 
through green meadows. The rocks 
and bowlders over which it broke in 
its beginnings are of the past, and its 
maturity does not harbor even a mem- 
ory of them. So the life of Robert 
and Sara was unmarked except by 
dear domestic joys — the baby’s first 
step, her lisping words, the day on 
which, for the first time, Whitwell’s 
pony stood beside his father’s and 
mother’s horses, and he cantered off 
with them for their morning ride. 

Whitwell called them “ father” and 
“mother.” He had always called his 
own father “papa,” and while he had 



250 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


seen little of his mother she had 
existed in his mind as “mamma.” 
Robert wished him to feel that he 
was absolutely one of the family, and 
from the first set himself to win the 
boy. He entered minutely into all 
that concerned him, and he felt him- 
self in a peculiar way to be like a sol- 
dier on guard over the citadel of the 
boy’s life. He was alert, not to meet 
emergencies, but to anticipate them, 
and questions were answered before 
they could be asked. In the inti- 
macy of their home life he taught him 
the truth concerning himself and his 
relation to others ; that his body must 
be clean and holy, a fit temple for 
the Living God. He taught him in 
what great and wonderful sense it 
truly was such a temple, and that the 
crime of desecrating it was on a level 
with any crime against nature. 
Moreover, that he could have no rela- 
tion with any other human being 
which was not helpful to that other. 

As both children grew, they were 
supplied, by the never-ceasing watch- 
fulness of their parents, with the 
knowledge that is the true protector 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 251 


of innocence — a protector as much 
more powerful than ignorance can be 
as day is lighter than night. Their 
time was filled with duties and pleas- 
ures, and life was made so healthfully 
bright and gay for them that neither 
had time or inclination for dreams 
of sickly sentimentality. The beau- 
tiful unfolding of their characters 
was seen in their frank, steadfast eyes, 
without fear or secretiveness, and in 
the alertness with which they offered 
themselves for any service. 

It was Christmas morning. The 
trees on the avenue were bare, and 
there was a cheery frostiness in the 
air. In the open fireplace a great 
yule log gave welcome warmth as 
well as Christmas brightness. Mar- 
garet was alone in the room. She 
stood, her little face against the win- 
dow, looking eagerly down toward the 
road. The doors leading into the 
adjoining room were carefully closed. 
Presently, with a shout of joy, she 
rushed to the door. 

“ They are coming, they are com- 
ing ! Come, Whitwell ! ” she called 


252 


ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


as she ran. Without waiting for 
hood or scarf, she threw open the 
front door and ran down the avenue 
to meet her friends. Whitwell joined 
her, and in a few minutes they came 
back, bringing with them about 
twenty boys and girls. Amid much 
laughter and shouts of Merry Christ- 
mas ! ” they soon had the wraps off 
and were making their guests at home. 
These were children whom Whitwell 
and Margaret had themselves chosen 
for their Christmas-tide frolic. They 
had been taught that they could 
properly celebrate Christmas only by 
giving themselves to others. They 
learned the lesson well and quickly, as 
children always Jearn true lessons ; so 
when their mother asked them who 
should be their guests, they had 
chosen with unerring judgment those 
whose day would be made brighter 
for their feast, rather than those 
whose overladen palates were already 
sated. 

Robert and Sara now came in 
from the closed room, and prepared 
to act the part of spectators. Whit- 
well asked one of the oldest boys to 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 253 


Stand beside him at the doors, so that 
they might throw them both open at 
once. The eyes of all the little ones 
were wide with expectation when 
Margaret and Whitwell said, almost 
simultaneously, “ Where is dear 
grandpa ? ” and Margaret rushed off 
to Mr. Gardner’s apartment, calling 
to him. 

The children always called Mr. 
Gardner “dear grandpa.” Sara 
often told them that we can never 
know what sorrows may be hidden in 
the hearts of old people, nor how 
short the time may be in which w.e 
can show them our love and sym- 
pathy, so we ought each day to make 
them know how much we love them. 

In a moment Mr. Gardner came 
in, ushered by Margaret ; the two 
boys, looking as solemn and impor- 
tant as possible, threw the doors 
open, and the lovely Christmas tree, 
with its shining tapers and silver 
frost, its lower branches laden with 
gifts, its upper ones gay with jeweled 
stars, stood revealed before the chil- 
dren. For one moment they stood 
and looked at it, the next they had 


254 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


gathered around its base ; Whitwell 
and Margaret began to untie the 
presents and give them to those 
whose names they bore. Immedi- 
ately all the others were helping in 
the work, and if the kind old Santa 
Claus whose smiling face looked 
down from the topmost branch had 
really been able to see, he would 
have been more than satisfied. 

Soon Robert and Sara had to con- 
centrate all their attention on pre- 
venting a conflagration, as the tree 
with its lighted tapers swayed about 
under the hands of the young ma- 
rauders ; and they laughed to see 
that the decoration, which had taken 
them several hours to arrange, dis- 
appeared in a few minutes before 
the outslaughts of the children. 
There was nothing left except a few 
bright balls which were too high for 
the tallest to reach, and the delicious 
odor that was the tree’s own breath, 
and with which it filled the air. The 
children scattered about, romping to 
their hearts’ content. They stopped 
playing to eat the Christmas dinner, 
and then went at their play again. 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 255 


In the midst of their games, before 
they had grown tired, suddenly Whit- 
well drew himself up in an attitude 
of listening. 

“Come” he said ; “mother is go- 
ing to sing.*' 

Followed by the noisy crowd, he 
led the way into the sitting room. 
Sara was waiting for them with her 
fond smile which embraced them all. 
She was not, strictly speaking, a 
musician, but her voice was sweet 
and true as it must have been. It 
was a French song which she sang 
for them. 

“ Trois anges sont venus ce soir 
M’apporter de bien belles choses ; 

L’un deux avait un encensoir, 

L’autre avait un chapeau de roses, 

Et le troisi^me avait en main 
Une robe toute fleurie 
De perles d’or et de jasmin 
Comme en a Madame Marie. 

Noel, Noel, nous venons du ciel 
T’apporter ce que tu desires, 

Car le bon Dieu 
Au fond du ciel bleu 
A chagrin lorsque tu soupires. 

“ Veux-tu le bel encensoir d’or 
Ou la rose eclose en couronne ? 


256 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Veux-tu la robe ou bien encor 
Un collier ou Targent fleuronne? 
Veux-tu des fruits du Paradis 
Ou du ble des celestes granges ? 

Ou comme les bergers, jadis, 

Veux-tu voir Jesus dans ses langes ? 
Noel ! Noel ! Retournez au ciel, 

Mes beaux anges k I’instant meme ; 
Dans le ciel bleu 
Demandez k Dieu 

Le bonheur pour celui que j’aime ! ” 

When she ended her song, she 
turned around on the piano stool, 
and putting her arms around two or 
three of those, nearest to her, while 
the rest clustered about her knee, 
she talked to them — only for a few 
minutes, only a few words, but into 
each childish heart there sank a little 
seed, a nobler idea of the Christ 
Child, which, grown into their lives, 
should surely mean purer loving, 
truer living. 

Robert was standing in front of 
the fire, an interested spectator of the 
whole scene. He noticed, with ever 
new wonder and love, that to Sara 
there seemed to be no difference 
between the children. Her wonder- 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 257 


fill mother love was for childhood^ and 
she poured its blessings on all. 

She looked up and found his eyes 
fixed earnestly on her. Gently de- 
taching herself from the caressing 
hands of the children, she bade 
Whitwell and Margaret help them to 
put on their wraps. When they had 
left the room she went over to the 
fireside and stood before Robert, 
looking at him a little wistfully. 

“ Robert ! ” 

He took both her hands in his, and 
held them pressed against his breast. 

“Yes, dearest. What is it?” 

“ Does it ever seem — I mean, have 
you ever felt ” 

She paused. 

“ Do you mean, have I ever felt 
that because you give so much of 
your dear self to the children, some 
of you is taken away from me ? ” 

Her eyes answered him. 

“ Never ! Never, by all our dear 
love, which is my life ! You cannot 
be more to me in any way than in 
fulfilling all of your nature. Noth- 
ing could be more terrible to me than 


258 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


to know that any influence of mine 
should dwarf any part of it.” 

“Yes, Robert,” she said. “But 
that wasn’t all that I wished. It was 
to tell you, in words, that all of it, 
whatever I am to them or to anyone, 
is all for you, and because of you.” 

“ I know,” he answered. 

Evening had almost come ; Sara 
and the children were mysteriously 
hidden from everyone’s view. They 
were all invited to tea with Mr. Gard- 
ner. It was one of the rare and 
great treats of their lives to visit him 
and be shown the wonders which his 
room contained. He had asked them 
to a Japanese tea to-day, and without 
saying anything to him or Robert 
about it, Sara had dressed herself 
and the children in complete Japanese 
costumes. She had also taught them 
how to bow and draw in their breath 
with true Japanese politeness. Noth- 
ing could be funnier than little Mar- 
garet, as she stood on her tiny 
Japanese shoes, her hair combed high 
and stuck full of tortoise-shell pins 
and her hands hidden in the pockets 
of her sleeves. Her great brown 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 


eyes were strangely out of keeping 
with the rest of her appearance. 
She was partly amused herself, and 
partly annoyed. “Why,” she said, 
“ why do we go to tea with dear 
grandpa, so ? ” 

“To make him laugh and to re- 
mind him of the little Japanese boys 
and girls who used to come and see 
him in Nagasaki,” Whitwell ex- 
plained. 

Margaret looked at him gravely, 
only half convinced. 

“ We live here** she answered. 
Nevertheless she followed them, and 
when she saw her mother bow down 
until her sleeves touched the floor, 
and heard her speak to dear grandpa 
in the soft Japanese words she did 
her best to imitate her. Presently 
they were all seated on the floor 
(only Margaret insisted on letting 
her feet come out in front of her). 

The room into which they entered 
was essentially Japanese in its char- 
acteristics. Wide, simple and free, 
it was restful to all the senses. There 
was no crowding together of incon- 
gruous ornaments, no slightest display 


26 o ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


of anything. Only on the wall hung 
one kakimona which had been chosen 
for the day. It represented Jizo, 
the child's god, in the act of wiping 
the tears from the eyes of the little 
dead babies. In an angle of a fold- 
ing screen stood a great jar, its ex- 
quisite blue and white serving to 
render more brilliant the dark holly 
leaves and crimson berries with which 
it had been filled in honor of Christ- 
mas day. In the center of the room 
on the floor stood a bronze blazer 
over which a tea-kettle was merrily 
singing. Sara made the tea, and in 
watching her the last shade of vexa- 
tion vanished from Margaret’s face. 
When they had drunk their tea from 
the tiny thin cups, and eaten some 
sugar cakes, Mr. Gardner folded a 
screen which stood before the door 
of his sanctum sanctorum, and led 
the way into it. 

This room was hung everywhere 
with rare old embroideries and tapes- 
tries, it was lighted by many old 
lanterns made of iron or brass lace 
work so fine that it was almost im- 
possible to believe them to be metal 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 261 


without touching them. He took 
from a table a long lacquer box which 
he gave to Margaret. She sat on the 
floor to open it and found in it a 
quaint little Japanese doll which she 
proceeded to examine with great 
solemnity. After a few minutes she 
stood before a mirror and compared 
herself, detail after detail with the 
doll. Presently she laid it down and 
put her fingers to the corners of her 
eyes. She drew them out to make 
them long and slanting. Holding 
them so she came back to Mr. Gard- 
ner and bowed to the ground. “ A 
real little Japanese girl, come to visit 
you, dear grandpa,” she said. 

Mr. Gardner took her up onto his 
lap, and for an hour or two he talked 
to her and her brother, telling them 
stories of the dear little children who 
had been his friends in far-away 
Nagasaki. Then he told them of the 
rice fields where the men and women 
work standing all day in the water ; 
of the little gardens on the thatched 
roofs of the cottages where fragrant 
lilies blossom, and of the ponds where 
the lotus blooms float on the still 


262 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


water. He described the wonderful 
Japanese kites which the w-hole com- 
munity goes out to fly, and so on and 
on. 

Little Margaret’s eyes began to 
grow heavy, and at the close of one 
story she said : “ Dear Grandpa, 

when I am a little older, will you take 
me to Nagasaki, and can I play with 
Singhie and Tomarri ?’* 

Before he could answer, her eyes 
closed, and she slept. 

Mr. Gardner never tired of talking 
of Japan, and Whitwell never tired of 
listening, so when Sara said that Mar- 
garet must be put to bed, Whitwell 
lingered in the enchanted place. 

“ Dear Grandpa,” he said, “ some 
way all the places in the world seem 
real to me when I am here with you ; 
not at all as they do in the geography 
and history. When I am a man I 
intend to see every place that there 
is ; that is,” he added, “ if I have 
time.” 

Robert was Whitwell’s ideal. He 
longed to be a man that he might be 
like him in every particular, and al- 
ready he realized that strong living is 


SCENES IN HOME LIFE. 263 


not always compatible with simple 
pleasure seeking. The atmosphere 
of this home in which he was growing 
up, where utterly untarnished love 
was the motive power of everything, 
was having its influence on his nature, 
which had been warped and belittled 
in his early surroundings. It needed 
Sara’s motherly arms around the little 
orphan, her tender tones comforting 
his heart to bring back the warmth 
of childhood to him. He expanded 
to the light as the flowers do, and 
those who watched him with such 
care were made joyful in his develop- 
ment. But not they nor he knew 
how enshrined in his heart of hearts 
was the image of this woman whom 
he called “ mother,” and what a 
power through all his life would be 
his thought of what she would wish 
him to be or to do. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

“No dwelling more, by sea or shore 
But only in my heart.” 

) Sara paraphrased the 
words of the song. She 
stood on the veranda, look- 
ing dreamily out over the 
smiling scene. Several 
years had passed. It was early 
summer. The lilacs were in bloom, 
and to Robert, coming toward her 
across the lawn, her noble profile 
and the masses of her luxuriant hair 
were outlined against the thick 
clusters of flowers. Since the time 
when she lived in Japan her home 
gowns had always been of Japanese 
crepe. She loved the soft, clinging 
stuff, and it suited the grace and 
gentleness of all her movements. 
Robert saw no change in her on 
this lovely morning. To him she 
was always the embodiment of per- 



‘‘no dwelling more.” 265 


feet womanly beauty; to other eyes 
there were changes to be noted. 
There were a few faint lines around 
the sweet eyes, a few white hairs on 
the temples, and the tender mouth 
showed unmistakably that it had 
drunk deeply of life’s goblet, filled 
as it is with bitter-sweet pleasures 
and pains. 

She had come out to see her chil- 
dren start for an afternoon’s ride, 
and after kissing her hand to them, 
and smiling good-by, had remained 
in the same attitude long after they 
were out of sight. She did not see 
Robert, and just as he reached her 
he heard her speak the words quoted. 
He put his hands on her shoulders 
and drew her toward him. 

“What is ‘only in your heart,’ 
dearest?’’ 

She turned to him and, as her eyes 
met his, there came into them the 
light that had been the light of his 
life. She clasped her hands over 
his arm, and they walked back and 
forth on the veranda. 

“I was thinking of the children, 
dear,’’ she said; “living over, in a 


266 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


way, all their lives. It is so sad, 
don’t you think, that they are so 
altogether grown ilp? We have been 
so happy with them and in them, 
and I was indulging in a little senti- 
mental regret over their vanished 
childhood. All the happy times and 
all the sad ones, too — all their dear 
childhood days are gathered up and 
buried in my heart. You see, 
Robert, I was really sentimental, 
wasn’t I? It all came of a great 
longing, about which there is begin- 
ning to be a great fear. You know, 
dearest, I have so hoped that they 
would see each other with my eyes. 
I can hardly restrain myself from 
saying to Whitwell, ‘ Do you not see 
that Margaret is the sweetest, fair- 
est, truest woman in the world? 
Why do you not woo and win her 
for your wife?’ Then, when the 
next minute I see her look at him as 
if he were just any man, one to 
whom she is perfectly indifferent, I 
have to shut my lips tight together 
for fear I should say, ‘What, then, do 
you not know Lohengrin when you 
see him?’ I know, of course, that it 


“.NO DWELLING MORE.” 267 


would surely spoil everything if I did 
anything of the kind. I certainly 
will not, but oh, Robert, you do not 
think either of them could be so 
blind as to love anyone else?” 

“I do not know, darling. The 
wind bloweth where it listeth, and I 
have no power to foretell what love 
will do,” Robert replied. 

‘Tt will be a terrible disappoint- 
ment to me if any such thing should 
happen. I have always counted on 
their being married. It seems to 
me that their marriage would be the 
utter fulfillment of our lives, Robert. 
Their characters are so noble, they 
both have the same beautiful ideal 
of marriage, of home and children. 
It seems to me impossible that Mar- 
garet could marry a man with the 
ordinary understanding of marriage; 
it would be a desecration. Or that 
Whitwell should be anything but 
repelled by the fascinations of women 
who have more physical charm than 
womanliness of character.” 

She was gazing appealingly into 
Robert’s face. 

“I too have hoped for it,” h^ 


268 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


said, “and we will hope, until there 
is certainty that ir is not to be.” 

Sara had seen, with a mother’s 
intelligence, all the phases of relation 
between Whitwell and Margaret. In 
the beginning they had been truly 
brother and sister. Whitwell’s favor- 
ite name for Margaret had been 
“little sister.’’ They had played 
together, had quarreled and made 
friends again, as all healthy children 
of strong individual character do. 
Grown older, they had met in their 
vacations as old comrades and chums, 
with frank, open gladness. Of late 
there had come a change. Margaret 
had returned from a trip abroad just 
as Whitwell, having finished his 
course at the Cambridge Law 
School, entered the law office of one 
of his father’s friends. Their mother 
smiled, in private, to see this courtly 
young man display his ceremonious 
politeness to Margaret, and the 
dainty but distant grace and dignity 
with which she received his atten- 
tions. 

As the days went by, and the cold- 
ness between them did not pass, but 


‘‘no dwelling more.’* 269 


seemed rather to augment, she grew 
alarmed for her fondest hopes. The 
more anxious she felt for the final 
result, the more exactly she de- 
manded of herself that they should 
have every opportunity to know their 
own minds. To this end she filled 
the house with youthful guests, and 
for weeks the whole place rang with 
merry peals of laughter and the 
music that accompanies light-hearted 
youth on its inconsequential way. 

More than once Sara, keeping 
jealous vigil, saw looks of love and 
admiration showered upon Margaret; 
but the stately maiden gave no sign 
that she took note of them. Again 
and again she caught a passing flush 
of pleasure on fair young faces which 
seemed to say that Whitwell had but 
to woo to win; he was attentive to 
all their guests, but even his mother’s 
penetrating eyes could find no differ- 
ence in his manner to any one of 
them. 

The day came for the breaking up 
of the party. Luncheon was to be 
the last gathering of the guests; they 
were all going their various ways 


ROBERT ATTERBURV. 


during the afternoon. While they 
sat at table they were busy making 
plans to meet again, and discussing 
the pleasures of the near future. 
One of them, Helen Norris, was 
Margaret’s most intimate friend. 

“Mamma will be most anxious to 
know your decision about joining us 
for our winter in Egypt,” she said. 
“You know we are going to cross 
early and spend the autumn in Swit- 
zerland. Do come, Rita dear. I 
do not half care to go, if you do 
not.” 

Margaret hesitated before answer- 
ing. Did her eyes seek Whitwell’s? 
Sara almost thought so, but the next 
moment they turned to her own. 

“I will talk with mother about it 
and let you know. I feel almost 
sure that I will go,” she added, a 
moment later. 

Was there a sad note in her voice? 
Her mother thought so. 

When the last guest had departed. 
Margaret went into the house and 
started to go upstairs. 

“Margaret, little sister,” Whitwell 
called. She stopped, smiling down 


“no dwelling mor^:.” 271 

at him questioningly. “Do you feel 
like taking a ride, a good long ride, 
out beyond the Soldiers’ Home or 
around by Arlington Heights?” 

“Yes,” she answered gayly, “I 
do. I will be ready in five minutes. ’ ’ 

While she was putting her habit 
on, she repeated “little sister” to 
herself. “He wishes me to know 
that he only cares for me as a sister. 
Well, there is certainly no reason why 
I should cry because I cannot have 
what I have never had any reason to 
expect. Suppose he does not wish 
to marry me. Why should he? And 
why should I make him and mother 
and myself wretched about it?” 

Margaret was a perfect horse- 
woman, and although her form was 
slight she looked like a little queen 
when she sat on her beautiful horse. 
Whitwell adjusted the stirrup, and 
she bent over to smooth her skirt. 
Her shining black braids almost 
touched the blond hair on Whitwell’s 
forehead. He had Claire’s golden 
hair and brown eyes, and as he 
stood there beside the horses, tall 
and straight, he looked like a young 


272 


ROBERT ATTERBURV. 


Lancelot. The mother, standing on 
the veranda, thought she had never 
seen such a pleasant sight. In 
another moment, with gay backward 
glances and merry chatter, they dis- 
appeared down the long avenue. In 
that moment, when Margaret’s head 
had almost touched him, and he had 
felt her breath on his cheek, Whitwell 
had taken one look into her face 
above him — the face which she had 
wreathed in smiles to hide her pain. 

“She does not care,’’ he said to 
himself. “I am to her only an elder 
brother, and nothing more. Well, 
please God, I will never let her be 
unhappy as she would be if she 
knew.’’ So he lent himself to her 
devise, and all the rest of the summer 
day they rode side by side, through 
enchanting groves where the busy 
birds were building their nests, and 
past orchards where the cherry trees 
were letting their blossoms drift off 
into the expectant air, that the 
hidden fruit might give itself to the 
sun. 

They came out on the hill behind 
the Soldier’s Home when the sun was 


DWELLING MORE. 273 


only about ten minutes high. The 
scene was full of glory. Everywhere 
the long, level rays shone through 
the trees, and even the shadows were 
luminous in the faint haze that over- 
spread the land. Away in the dis- 
tance lay the queenly city, the white 
columns and golden dome of the 
Capitol illuminated by the last light 
of the setting sun. They drew their 
horses up, and with one impluse 
waited to see the day’s decline. 
Margaret’s eyes wandered over the 
landscape, and as the shadows en- 
croached on the sunshine, there came 
into them a look of melancholy. 
Whitwell had dismounted, and with 
the bridle over his arm stood leaning 
against his horse and looking at Mar- 
garet. How sweet and dear she was ; 
how wonderful in the strong spring- 
tide of her womanhood! What 
could any other woman ever be to 
him, and — yes, what could any 
other man ever be to her? He real- 
ized that without her life would have 
no meaning to him. 

The sun was almost gone; only a 
little rim still rested on the hilltops. 


274 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


and behind them rose a great shadow 
which seemed waiting to enfold them. 
With sudden impulse Margaret 
stretched out both arms toward the 
west. 

“Do not go! Oh, do not go!’* 
she exclaimed. 

Whitwell put his hand up and 
clasped one of hers. 

“Do not go! Oh, do not go!’^ he 
repeated. 

She looked down into his eyes and 
read them. 

“Do not go, little sister — sweet- 
heart — wife!’^ 

Each tender word was in answer 
to her eyes, which told him all. 

“Ah, Margaret, darling, what could 
have made us think that we could 
live without each other?” 

“I never thought that I could live 
without you,” she answered between 
a sob and a smile. 

They went slowly home in the 
gloaming, the horses taking their own 
time. They had so much to say; 
there were so many silences between 
them when their thoughts were too 
deep for words. 


^‘no dwelling more.’* ^75 


At the steps they sprang from their 
horses and let them find their own 
way to the stables. Moved by the 
same thought, hand in hand they 
went into the room where Robert 
and Sara were sitting with Mr. Gard- 
ner. Straight to the mother they 
went, and Sara read in their radiant 
faces that her hopes were to be ful- 
filled. Margaret threw herself into 
her arms. 

“Oh, mother, mother!” she 
sobbed. 

Whitwell knelt beside them, and 
clasped his arms around them both. 
His voice was not less manly that it 
trembled as he spoke. 

“Mother, dearest, will you trust 
her to irie?” 




CHAPTER XVI. 

“l BESEECH THEE SHOW ME THY 
GLORY.” 

the open door of his 
house Robert stood, on a 
fine October morning, al- 
most at the end of the 
nineteenth century. He 
was waiting for his wife, and they 
were about to start on their usual 
morning walk. The clear morning 
light brought out, unreservedly, all 
the changes which time had wrought 
in him. The delicacy of constitu- 
tion that had belonged to his youth 
was a thing of the past; the only 
remaining mark of it being in his 
figure, which had not grown portly 
with advancing years. He was in- 
clined to regard this as an advan- 
tage, because, having less weight to 
carry, the years had not taken the 


“show me thy glory.” 277 


elasticity of his step. His hair was 
white, and there were lines of life 
written on his face. Only in his eyes 
was youth ; not the fleeting youth of 
inexperience and of few days, but 
the immortal youth of the gods, to 
which none may attain except those 
who have kept the springs of joy and 
delight unpolluted; those to whom 
the passing years only give new appre- 
ciation for their boundless pleasures. 

Sara came to him smiling, and 
together they passed down the avenue. 

Within the house, before a bright 
little fire, and with the sunshine fall- 
ing across his knees, sat Mr. Gard- 
ner. The frosts of many winters 
had made his few locks like shining 
silver, and the strength of his man- 
hood had departed. On his placid 
face was a look of repose and con- 
tent, and a light which shone from 
within. It was the same light that 
looks from the eyes of a little child 
who has not lost the vision of the 
angels which surround it. We have 
all seen it in the infant’s eyes; it is 
not always on the face of the aged. 

An hour later the door opened, and 


278 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


Sara entered. She had a book in 
her hand, “Glimpses of Unfamiliar 
Japan.” Going to her father, she 
kissed his forehead. 

“Dear father,” she said, “here is 
a new book about your dear Japan. 
I am so happy to think how much 
pleasure you will find in it.” 

He took the book and kept her 
hand as well. 

“Thank you, daughter. You may 
well say ‘dear Japan,’ because I do 
love it; but, daughter, there is some- 
thing I have been thinking about, 
which I wish to say to you to-day. 
This is your birthday, dear ; you are 
fifty-five years old. I wish to tell you 
to-day that the years of my life, which 
are many, are good years because of 
you ; that for more than thirty years 
past you have filled my life with the 
corn of comfort and the wine of great 
joy; and that now, as I look back 
over the long way, the sorrows of my 
youth are forgotten in the blessedness 
which you have given me. You 
know, daughter, that I am on the 
border land. Sometimes I seem to 
be so near that I can feel the life 


“show me thy glory.” 279 


which is coming, all around me. I 
shall find her there; often I am con- 
scious of her presence now, and to- 
day I had the thought come to me to 
thank and bless you in her name.*' 

Sara’s eyes were full of tender 
tears as she smoothed the straggling 
locks on his forehead. Suddenly 
there came the tramp of ponies’ feet, 
then a rush like the wind, and the 
door flew open. 

“Grandma, grandma!” shouted 
the voices. 

Robert heard the clatter of hoofs 
and the voices of the children. He 
left his writing at once to go to meet 
them. They were Whitwell’s and 
Margaret’s children, and they were 
the crowning joy of Robert’s life. 
He welcomed them each time with 
new pleasure; he studied the devel- 
opment of their natures with concen- 
trated delight. They were indeed 
and in truth his children ^ the children 
of his lifelong devotion, of his self- 
sacrifice, and of his manhood. Well 
might he rejoice in them, beautiful, 
happy creatures that they were! 
Here were no sad childish eyes look- 


28o ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


ing out on a world of woe; no droop- 
ing corners of the mouth proclaimed 
them the inheritors of all the load of 
weary questioning, of all the doubts 
and hopelessness of these jin de sihle 
days. The elasticity and the activity 
of boundless life were in their every 
motion, the light of boundless joy 
shone in their lovely eyes. Robert 
never met their gaze without a thrill 
of great expectancy. He knew that 
these were the eyes of those who will 
enter into the Promised Land, for 
they were FREE BORN. 

He knew that in other places and 
other homes, few perhaps, but con- 
stantly increasing, sons and daugh- 
ters were coming up to receive the 
promise: “Blessed is the man whose 
delight is in the LAW of the LORD.” 
As from the top of Mount Pisgah 
Moses gazed with rapture on the 
Canaan which he might not enter, so 
Robert now saw in these children the 
glory and joy of the human race that 
SHALL BE. 

The children had paused for a 
second on the threshold, and, seeing 
that “dear grandpa” was there, went 


“show me thy glory.” 281 


and spoke to him first. Then little 
Robert, or Rob, as they called him, 
advanced to his grandmother. He 
carried a huge bouquet of pink roses, 
which he presented to her. 

“There are fifty-five, and they 
are all Hermosa roses,” he said. 
“Mamma says that means ‘perfectly 
beautiful,’ so I would not have any 
other kind for yourbirthday,and I wish 
you many happy returns, Grandma.” 

She took them, and kissed the 
bright cheeks of her little grandson. 

“Thank you, dearest, for the roses 
and the wishes and all,” she said. 

Meanwhile little Sara was waiting 
for her turn. She held, pressed close 
to her breast, a piece of cardboard, 
which she now put upon her grand- 
mother’s lap. 

“It is a picture for your birthday, 
and I wishes you many happy re- 
turns, and I made it for you myself.” 

One side was blue, and happily it 
flashed into Sara’s mind that that 
must be intended for the sky. She 
held it with that side up, very anxious 
not to disappoint the young artist, 
who watched her eagerly. 


282 ROBERT ATTERBURY. 


“Oh, yes! 1 see! It is the 
avenue leading up to grandma’s 
house, isn’t it, darling little girl?’’ 

“Yes,” the little girl went on, 
pointing with her finger; “yes, and 
this is the road, and those are the 
trees, and this is Rob on Toby, and 
I am on Fido, and we are coming to 
see you. I painted us coming be- 
cause you are gladder when we come 
than when we go, and I wanted the 
gladdest thing for your birthday.” 

Robert was talking to his name- 
sake, and now little Sara ran to him. 

“There is going to be a surprise in 
a little while,” she said. 

“A surprise? For whom?” he 
asked. 

She drew his head down close to 
her lips, and whispered mysteriously. 

“For grandma, because it is her 
birthday.” At the moment, she 
heard the sound of carriage wheels on 
the gravel. “The surprise has come, 
the surprise has come ! ” she shouted, 
as she rushed out of the door. 

Whit well and Margaret came in 
smiling and happy. 

“Hush, hush, little one, not quite 


‘‘show me thy glory.” 283 


so loud,” Margaret said, holding up 
her finger to little Sara. 

In Whitwell’s arms lay the latest 
arrival in their happy home. He 
went and laid it in his mother’s arms. 
They all gathered around her ; 
Robert, standing behind her chair, 
looked over her shoulder at the fair, 
sweet babe, and even Mr. Gardner 
drew himself out of his easy chair to 
come nearer for a moment. 

“We could not leave little Claire 
at home on your birthday, mother, 
dearest,” Whitwell said. 

“Because,” said little Sara, who 
was leaning on her grandmother’s 
knee, “when nurse said that Claire 
is too little to go visiting, mamma 
said that we must not think, because 
she is too little to talk, that she is 
too little to feel.” 

Rob had put his forefinger into 
the baby’s hand, and the tiny pink 
fingers curled around it as he took up 
the theme. 

“And papa said that she must 
come to take possession of her birth- 
right. He said that is her part in 
grandma’s love.” 


284 


ATTERBURY, 


He paused, aru' little Sara, wait- 
ing eagerly to ha e him speak the 
words which she could not quite 
remember, said, ‘ \nd more — he said 
more than that, Rob.” 

The beautiful boy slowly raised 
his eyes from Claire’s little fingers; 
they paused .'or a moment on his 
sister’s face, hen rested on his 
grandmother . )Oke. 

“Yes,” he said, “ ‘for her chil- 
dren’s children shall call her 
blessed.’ ” 


THE END. 










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BINDERY INC. 




1985 


N. MANCHESTER, 
INDIANA 46962 


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